


i got you covered, under covers

by jadedpearl



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Some Drug Use, idiots to lovers, light references to past substance abuse problems, tags will update when i do :), they are such a mess in this I can't believe I even wrote it oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadedpearl/pseuds/jadedpearl
Summary: The day Eddie’s divorce is finalized, Richie picks Eddie up from work. Well, he Ubers to Eddie’s office building without telling him, and manages to get up to his floor. After fourteen minutes of frantic texts (SOS!! HELP!!! TRAPPED ON THE SET OF WOLF OF WALL STREET!!), Eddie finds him sitting in the waiting area.“I hate when you wear that,” he says, gesturing to what Richie calls his ‘celebrity-get-up’. “We’re inside. Take your stupid sunglasses off. Is that a coloring book?”....Eddie's discovering his sexuality. It gets messy.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 34
Kudos: 264





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't see the SNL single ladies skit, here's you're required reading for one (1) joke : https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3hf372  
> Just imagine Richie instead of JT

The whole thing is, in retrospect, a terrible idea. 

It goes like this: Eddie’s divorce has just been finalized. Bev and Ben are in Italy, so Richie is the only other Loser in New York. He drags Eddie out to celebrate, they get drunk, wind up at Eddie’s apartment, and fuck. Then they keep doing it – fucking, that is – until they don’t. 

Okay, so the less abbreviated version goes like this: Eddie’s divorce has been finalized (that part’s fine to speed through, probably. Best not to linger on it). Bev and Ben are still in Italy ( _ Naples,  _ to be exact – some architect convention, yada yada). And the day Eddie’s divorce is finalized (without alimony! Boo yah!) Richie picks Eddie up from work. Well, he Ubers to Eddie’s office building without telling him, and manages to get up to his floor. After fourteen minutes of frantic texts ( _ SOS!! HELP!!! TRAPPED ON THE SET OF WOLF OF WALL STREET!!) _ , Eddie finds him sitting in the waiting area.

“I hate when you wear that,” he says, gesturing to what Richie calls his ‘celebrity-get-up’. “We’re inside. Take your stupid sunglasses off. Is that a coloring book?” 

“Sure is, Spaghetti.” Richie shoves the hood of his sweatshirt back and turns his baseball hat around so it sits backwards on his head. The sunglasses he tosses to Eddie, who catches them and rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you answer your phone faster?” 

Eddie ignores him and proceeds to do that really annoying thing where he waves his hand in front of Richie’s face. “Can you even see right now?” 

“Oh, absolutely not,” Richie says, pulling his glasses out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. He sighs dreamily, obnoxiously when Eddie’s trademark frown sharpens into view. “There you are!” 

“I wish they didn’t let you out in public,” Eddie says, pulling open his suit jacket to tuck the sunglasses in his front pocket even though they are, in fact, Richie’s. “Anyway, you texted my personal. I don’t check it during the day. And where the fuck did you get the crayons?” 

Richie, who’d made a noise like  _ “Ooh la la! _ ” around the time Eddie pulled open his jacket (to hide the fact that he is in earnest  _ Ooh-la-la- _ ing inside) grins in the face of Eddie’s glare. “Bethany gave it to me,” he says, nodding in the direction of the receptionist. “While I waited for you. I mostly asked for it as a joke, but I guess your firm actually had some spares, for kids or whatever.” 

Eddie shoots him a strange look. “People don’t bring kids here,” he says, turning to walk back to his office. 

Richie stands to follow him, stretching. Eddie snaps, “Don’t be fucking rude,” as Richie tosses the coloring book back onto the receptionist’s desk. “I’m sorry for him, Bethany.” 

Richie tries to redeem himself by straightening the book and setting the crayons gently on top of it. He flashes a quick grin at her. “Sorry, Bethany. Thanks for the book.” 

“Are you going to make a joke out of this?” she responds reproachfully, and Richie just grins harder, probably looking crazy, before jauntily trotting to keep up with Eddie, who’s already halfway down the hallway. 

Richie’s aware that from the outside, he looks insane a lot of the time. On one hand, it’s something he leans into because the unfortunate parameters of fame dictate that he, himself, is a marketable commodity and well, he has to keep it interesting. But his Wacky Comedian Insanity pales in comparison to the fact that Richie mostly acts like this around Eddie, and it’s mostly around Eddie because Eddie makes him so goddamn  _ happy.  _

In his office, Eddie is stuffing various papers into his briefcase. Or maybe he’s pulling papers  _ out  _ of the briefcase – Richie can’t really tell, because he’s focused on Eddie’s (wedding ring free!) hands. Nice and strong and perfectly sized. He’s starting to zone out staring at the little bit of hair on the back of Eddie’s knuckles, when he notices Eddie expectantly looking at him. 

“Sooooo,” Richie drawls, dropping into the chair across from Eddie’s desk. It’s very uncomfortable. Well, it’s fine, actually, but Eddie’s office chair is nice and leather, and comparison, this one looks like a spare dragged in from a neglected conference room. It’s probably a power move, but whatever. “Whatcha up to tonight, single lady?” He flips his left hand back and forth. 

“You’re a terrible Beyoncé,” Eddie says, straightening and looking at the open door to his office. “And say it a little louder, why don’t you?” 

“Okay,” Richie says, and opens his mouth to yell something along the lines of  _ Eddie  _ and  _ divorce  _ and  _ woah-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh!  _ until Eddie preemptively shuts it down with a hissed  _ shush!. _ Richie closes his mouth. 

“I don’t like people at work getting into my personal business,” Eddie explains, annoyed. “I prefer to keep some distance.” He’s got that little crease between his eyebrows going. It’s clear now that he’s putting the papers  _ into  _ the briefcase, which Richie realizes with a happy hum means that Eddie might just be leaving  _ with _ him, at a reasonable hour.

“You sound like a huge asshole, but fine,” Richie says. “And I resent the Beyoncé comment. Didn’t you see that skit I did on SNL? We had to learn the whole dance, it took days! I bet I could still do it.” He shuffles in this chair, trying to remember the hip pops. 

Eddie stills and stares at him. “You were in that? With the leotards?” Richie nods. Eddie squints. “Did they….did they wax your legs?” 

“Double layered dance tights.” Richie smacks his thigh. “I was a natural in the heels, though.” 

Eddie pauses. Then he clicks his briefcase shut and clears his throat. “Well, you weren’t very good at the dance. I’m not rescinding anything.” 

“I had to tone it back!” Richie protests. “I was making Andy look bad.” 

“Uh-huh. Why are you here?”

Richie toys with the cord of his hoodie and sighs mournfully. “It’s so sad no one taught you anything about conversational English, Eduardo. Allow me.  _ Usually _ , when one says  _ What are you up to tonight, oh single female,  _ the implication is that  _ they _ would like to be the one doing something with you tonight.” 

“Oh yeah?” Eddie pats his pockets for his car keys. His left pants pocket jingles. “I’m still learning. Do you know this one? Fuck you.” 

“Come onnn,” Richie says, leaning across the desk to look up at Eddie. “Eddie. Eds. Come hang out with me. Your boy Richie. Your oldest pal. Your dearest friend.” 

Eddie’s eyebrow twitches, impossibly, further down. “We don’t live in  _ central Mass.  _ You are not – “ he does air quotes “ –  _ my boy. _ “ 

“If not yours, who’s?” Richie leans back in his chair. “Let’s get drinks. You can bring your dinky briefcase. Maybe a ‘ _hot single in your area DTF_ ’ will see your cufflinks and you’ll finally get some pussy.” 

To Richie’s delight, Eddie closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. “I’m so close to saying no.”

Richie still feels the rush of victory, though, because the implication is that Eddie’s default around him is a  _ yes.  _ “Funny, that’s what all of my hook-ups say!” 

“They better fucking not, asshole,” Eddie says, opening his eyes and continuing to do whatever it is he’s doing. “You might wanna watch it with jokes like that before you get fucking crucified by some woman who wants to rightfully see your ass in jail.” 

Richie holds his hands up quickly. “I was kidding!”  _ I don’t sleep with women!  _ “I don’t have hook ups!”  _ I’m too afraid to get outed!  _ “I’m a virgin!”  _ If your twenties and thirties don’t count!  _ (It’s been a bit of a dry spell. Like, a nine month dry spell. Enough time to grow a baby, or divorce your wife, or come back from Derry in love with your newly remembered childhood friend, and try to get your pathetic life together. For instance.) 

“I  _ knew _ you never fucked my mom,” Eddie says flatly. Then he says, “Fine. But somewhere close to here. I’m not dealing with parking the Escalade.” 

“Anything you want, baby!” Richie clasps his hands together, and then pulls his phone out to google bars in the area.

“Oh my God.” Eddie rolls his eyes and loosens his tie in a combo that goes directly to Richie’s – well, Richie’s little Richie. His brain’s just started in on singing  _ Good Golly, Miss Molly  _ before he registers Eddie saying, “Don’t be such a tourist. I’ll pick the bar.” 

“Sue me for trying to be helpful,” Richie says, putting his phone away. “I don’t go drinking off of Wall Street. If we get there and there’s more than ten white guys under thirty wearing suits, I’m walking.”

Eddie scowls as he mentally computes Richie’s parameters. “This isn’t Wall – whatever. Are you coming?” 

He’s waiting impatiently by the door. With his tie loosened – loosened! – he looks almost roguish. Well, not really – his hair is still gelled firmly in place, and his suit is navy, not black or pin striped or something cool and sexy like that. But Richie mentally ad-libs him with his jacket slung over his shoulder, and they’re off to the races! He scrambles to his feet. “All of my hook ups  _ do  _ say that, actually.” 

“Gee, Rich. You must be doing a swell job at it if they have to ask.” 

“You’d never know it, but I’m the silent type.” Richie lopes after him. 

Eddie throws him A Look over his shoulder. It’s a look that Richie has received many times in his lifetime – a sort of  _ uh huh. Sure  _ look. When pigs fly, and all that. “I guess it’ll have to remain a mystery.” 

“Ouch! You never know,” Richie tries to recover, waggling his eyebrows. He waves to Bethany, who avoids eye contact. 

After a pause, Eddie says, “I guess not,” and jabs the down button at the elevator. Richie pointedly does not read into it. 

Eddie turns to him. “Richie?” 

Richie’s throat is dry. “Yeah?” 

The corner of Eddie’s mouth quirks. “Please take the hat off. It’s not a good look for your hairline.” 

+

The bar ends up being almost next door to Eddie’s parking garage. Well, it’s part parking garage, part mall, but anyway. Richie knows this because Eddie insists on stopping by to check on the Escalade. 

“What do you have, separation anxiety?” He asks, trailing a few steps behind Eddie as he stalks ahead of him, key in hand. 

“No,” Eddie says, “I do not have separation anxiety. It’s supposed to rain tonight.” 

“And?”

“ _ And,  _ I have a travel umbrella in the car. I don’t want this suit to get wet.” 

“Okay,” Richie says, trying to sound as unconvinced as possible. “Can I touch it?”

“What? No,” Eddie says, when Richie’s palm is about an inch from the surface of the roof. “Don’t touch my car.” 

“This is discrimination,” Richie grouses, pulling his hand back to show that  _ no, I’m not going to touch your Cadillac. Fascist.  _

“Against what? Comedians? White men over forty?” Eddie says, mystified. The car beeps as he unlocks it and yanks, none too gently, on the car door handle. 

“No, just me. This is a good car, though.” He traces the shape of the Escalade in the air, hands open and stiff. “Very boxy. What mileage does it get? How good is it, y’know, for the environment?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says, now rooting around in the glove compartment. He emerges with the umbrella an unfortunately short amount of time later. Richie still makes a point to whistle at him from behind. Eddie’s barely even bent over, and his suit doesn’t exactly show off his _ assets _ , but still. It’s the principal of the thing. 

“You ever – this thing is like the fucking car in Titanic, Eds. What’s the trunk space? You ever – “ 

“ _ No,  _ Richie,” Eddie says, slamming the door shut. “I’ve never fucked anyone in the back of my car, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“I mean, you don’t have to be the one  _ doing  _ the fucking _ , _ ” Richie says, even though yes, okay, gun to his head, he would very much like Eddie to be the one  _ doing the fucking. _

Eddie shakes his head and stalks past him, umbrella gripped in his hand. Richie makes a point of dragging his hand across the rear windshield dramatically. “Little more steam, Eds, and  _ oooh– “  _

“Don’t get fingerprints on my windshield,” Eddie snaps. 

“ _ Fingerprints _ ?” Richie is delighted. “Eddie, you drive in Manhattan. I saw a bird jacking off on your car the other day and you’re worried about  _ fingerprints _ ?” 

“You’re so gross,” Eddie says. “Birds can’t jack off.” 

“Ask Stan,” Richie says, loping to catch up to Eddie. “Go ahead, ask him.” 

Eddie dramatically sweeps his eyes up to the concrete ceiling of the parking garage in a way that is, admittedly, very Stan-like. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” he says. 

“Because,” Richie says, even though he wonders the same thing, “ _ I  _ put up with  _ you _ .” 

“You made me this way,” Eddie says, slowing so that he and Richie are next to each other on the sidewalk again. 

“And your mother never forgave me,” Richie agrees, even though they both know the truth – Eddie was always this feral, and Richie isn’t quite so  _ much  _ around anyone else. 

The bar itself isn’t as stuffy as Richie would expect in Manhattan, so close to the financial district, but it still fits the bill – all glossy, warm wood, and a relieving absence of TVs broadcasting football games. Richie whistles and his alight on something.“You didn’t tell me they had Jenga here.”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says, dragging Richie away from the table tops and up to the bar. “Whiskey neat, please.”

Richie holds up a finger. “Vodka Sprite.”

Eddie turns a sour look onto Richie. “A Vodka Sprite? What are you, nineteen?” 

Richie plays dumb “What? What says nineteen about a Vodka Sprite?” 

Eddie snorts. “You know.  _ I want to get black out drunk without tasting alcohol, and I don’t know what two fingers means.  _ Just get a Gin and Tonic like an adult.” 

“Trust me, Eddie, I knew what two fingers meant when I was nineteen,” Richie says seriously. “Ask your mother.” He pauses to let Eddie glare, and then continues, grinning. “Besides, I was pretty much exclusively drinking Malort.” 

Eddie shudders. “Ugh. Who let you have a fake?” 

“No one  _ lets  _ you have a fake. Unless you count my parents unwittingly paying for it, which, I don’t.” He reaches over to pinch Eddie’s cheek. “I bet a cutie like you couldn’t get one ‘cause no one’d ever believe that you were 21.”

“Shut up. Can you imagine what would have happened if I got caught one? My mom would have…” 

He trails off, and Richie considers how he’d ad-lib the end of the sentence:  _ stuck her head in the oven? Rode in on a tornado, wicked witch style? Shredded your birth certificate and social security card, so you’d never be able to get a job, and have to stay home forever?  _ But then their drinks are coming. “Ah!” He makes a show of switching them, so that the whiskey is in front of him, and the ‘cocktail’ is in front of Eddie. “ _ Since  _ you think I can’t hold my alcohol, and I think you’re no fun, let’s do this.” 

“I  _ know  _ you can’t hold your alcohol,” Eddie mutters, but he slides the offensively sparkling drink towards himself anyway. “ _ And _ that’s an eighteen dollar drink.” 

“Jesus,” Richie says, obnoxiously smelling it with his mouth hanging open, the way his bartender friends have coached him. “You order the lobster on the first date, don’t you?” 

“I’m allergic to shellfish.” 

“Uh huh. How’s that taste?” 

“Like a fucking frat party.” Eddie wrinkles his nose, and Richie coos. “You really drink these?”

“Nah,” Richie says, carefully sipping the whiskey. It’s good, because Eddie has expensive tastes. “I mostly go for bourbon. I just thought it’d annoy you.” 

“Mission accomplished, asshole,” Eddie breathes, tucking his elbows in close to his body huffily. 

“It’s okay, you can go back to your Jack Daniels next round. Though you might want to get something cheaper.” 

When Eddie eyes him warily, Richie just grins. 

+

They can’t actually do that many rounds because Eddie has work in the morning – which, like, isn’t ideal, but it’s not Richie’s fault Myra’s lawyer faxed over the papers on a Thursday. But in his years of being on-again, off-again unemployed (before the TV specials and SNL and shit) Richie knows the trick to getting his hours in at the bar, which is to start early. And luckily, they have. 

Over the course of the evening, Richie orders a basket of wings and fries – but the nice kind, that come in a metal cup for whatever reason – and then proceeds to get pretty drunk. Not quite smashed, but up there. But despite the food – which was mostly to keep Eddie from getting wasted, in the first place – nine thirty rolls around with Eddie’s jacket slung across the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up, and Richie thinks he’s gonna die. 

For some reason, they’ve decided to switch to shots, but as Richie knocks the first back, he immediately decides that it’s going to be their first and last of the evening. Well, he can’t make any promises for Eddie, who’s never taken being told what to do particularly well, especially after leaving his mother’s home – but Richie knows he’s done when the tequila crawls at a burning, slugs pace down his throat. Ugh. 

Eddie shudders next to him, tucking his chin in and wincing. His tolerance is better than Richie thought it would be – must be all the schmoozing he has to put up with – but he’s pretty clearly drunk at this point. Maybe it’s why he leans a bit closer to Richie and says, “Do you ever – do you ever sit up, and, and, realize that it’s been thirty years?” He sways a bit closer, and Richie tamps down on the urge to either lean back, or forward. He forces himself still, like he’s in Jurassic Park and Eddie is a dinosaur. 

_ Being close = bad,  _ he tries to convince himself.  _ Just stay right here, and maybe he won’t see you.  _

Eddie continues on without noticing. “Sometimes it’s like, yeah, I’m forty, forty one, you know. Same old. But then sometimes I wake up and it’s so  _ fucking weird  _ that I’m not sixteen.” 

Richie thinks it must be almost time to go, so he laughs and says, “I stopped growing mentally when I was thirteen, Eds, you know that. My body just didn’t get the memo. I’m like fucking uh,” he struggles to remember through the haze of alcohol, “ _ Peter Pan.  _ On the inside. Sucks, right?” 

Eddie frowns. “I liked thirteen year old you.” 

“Come on,” Richie says. “You don’t have to say that. I can take it. I’m big now. I have back pain and everything” 

Eddie’s eyes trace the shape of Richie’s shoulders and he shrugs in acknowledgement, the same way he did way back in Derry when Richie turned the conversation to how hot Ben is now. But then he says, “Yeah, but. Even if you  _ were  _ thirteen on the inside, I’d still like you.” 

There’s really no way for Richie to de-homo this for himself, so he does what he always does – deflects. “Shucks,” he drawls, and Eddie rolls his eyes even before Richie clutches his chest over his heart. “You’re makin’ me blush.” 

“Wish you could add another fuckin’ accent to your roster, bud,” Eddie mutters into his glass. 

Richie snorts. “I have. I save my worst ones for you. Not all of us stayed cute after elementary school.” 

Eddie blinks, and Richie realizes his mistake. “What?” 

_ Fuck.  _ “Dude, it’s your hairline.” He winces internally. No way to it but through it, right? “Hasn’t budged a  _ millimeter _ . What, did you get work done?” 

“Did I – “ Eddie splutters. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“I’m pretty sure you have  _ more  _ hair than when we were kids, actually. And you’re parting it different now, too.”

Eddie narrows his eyes right as Richie thinks  _ Wait, maybe that was weird. Too weird _ . _ Weirder than it already was.  _ “Hold on, you remember how I  _ parted my hair _ ? I don’t even remember that, dude.” 

“Uh – “  _ Shit.  _ “Weird clown magic, amiright?” He goes to throw back the rest of his drink, but its gone.  _ Fuck.  _ Damn shot glasses.

If he wasn’t already beginning to think that it might be time to go, Richie’s suddenly positive when Eddie pulls Richie’s sunglasses out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and puts them on in the middle of a crowded bar. His hair has come ungelled, hanging in front of his eyebrow a little, and between that, the exposed forearms, the sunglasses, and the way Eddie’s currently sucking on a lime, Richie thinks that maybe he should just go ahead and call 911. Preemptively. 

“What – what is this, Risky Business?” He manages to laugh, while simultaneously making the _check, please, for the love of God, before I lose my mind, ma’am_ hand wave at the bartender. 

Eddie’s eyebrows quirk over the sunglasses, and he grins crookedly. “Risky Business? What, you want me to take my pants off?” 

Richie barks out a laugh and takes a long sip of his drink from the water glass that the bartender kindly placed in front of him about thirty minutes ago. Actually, maybe it was passive aggressive. Anyway. “Of course,” he says when he resurfaces. “Gotta have one Kaspbrak in my bed at all times.” 

“I'll pass your information along to one of my cousins, then,” Eddie says drily. Richie blinks, and then they both break, snorting into their drinks. Well, Eddie snickers into his empty shot glass. Eddie is so going to have the worst hangover tomorrow morning. Not that Richie’ll be there to see it, and for once, he’s glad. A hungover Eddie sounds – 

Well, not that bad, but there’s really no accounting for the way that lifelong, all consuming crushes tend to smooth out the sharp edges of people. 

Richie manages to get the check signed – with a generous tip – and passed back to the bartender before Eddie notices, which is probably good, because Eddie is the type that would shank Richie if he thought he wasn’t going to let him pay for something. He orders a ride share home in the same way – sneakily, under the table, and hoping to God that Eddie doesn’t notice.  _ Jurassic Park _ . Eddie for his part, shows no indication that he wants to leave anytime soon. In fact, he has his head dipping dangerously close to the bar when Richie gets the notification that their driver is close. 

“Come on, bud,” Richie says, shaking his shoulder gently. “Car’s almost here. Let’s go home.” 

Eddie allows himself to be shepherded out of the bar, only protesting to snag his suit jacket from the back of the chair. He also struggles with his wallet before dropping two twenties on the bartop. Richie lets it be and offers one last, apologetic smile at the bartender. 

They’re both drunk enough that they don’t notice it’s raining before they’ve shoved the door to the bar open and stumbled out into the street. And it is raining – pouring, one might say, rain scattering as it hits the dirty New York asphalt. 

The shock of the rain does something to clear the fog of the past few drinks. Richie’s still unsteady on his feet, but his tolerance is still better than Eddie’s, who yelps at the torrential downpour. “Fuck!” 

“Fuck,” Richie agrees. “Here – back here.” He manages to pull Eddie back up against the brick wall of the bar with a hand to his chest. 

It’s not exactly a serene tableau – the rain and the cars and New York in general rarely conspire to make one – but Richie, for once, doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence as they wait for Alex, white Honda Civic, to round the corner and take them home. Eddie, for his part, seems very intent on staring down at his fancy dress shoes that are undoubtedly getting ruined by the rain. Behind his sunglasses, Richie can’t tell much more from his expression besides the ever present scowl that presses his mouth and eyebrows into two lines. 

Eventually though, Richie squints into a pair of headlights and double checks the first four letters of the car idling in front of them and decides that yes, this has got to be Alex. 

“Come on, buddy,” He goes to herd Eddie – maybe by a hand at the back of the neck, because of the aforementioned tequila – but Eddie jerks at the last second, causing his sunglasses to spin off of his face and into the street. Between the cars speeding by and the rain, they’re immediately swept away. Eddie stares at the spot they occupied previously blankly. 

“Those were Ray Bans,” Richie says, exasperated only not really. “Those aren’t cheap.”

“So buy another pair, you rich asshole,” Eddie mutters, allowing Richie to push him into the backseat of the car. 

“Rich?” The driver says, trying to make eye contact in the rearview mirror. Richie says, “Yeah,” and avoids his gaze. 

“Tozier?” 

“No,” Richie says, sinking lower into his seat. 

“Fuck,” Eddie says, once they’re in the car and it’s zipping along the rainy street – well, “zipping along” as fast as it can in New York traffic, rain or no. He leans his head against the back of the seat. “My umbrella. I left it at the bar.”

“We’ll hold a funeral at dawn,” Richie says, because he is  _ not  _ going back there. 

“I don’t feel well,” Eddie says. Richie catches the driver’s gaze in the rear view mirror again – a warning glance, one might say – and holds up one placating hand. The other he rests on Eddie’s back awkwardly. 

“Alright, alright,” Richie says, struggling to get the words out himself. Comforting people actually is a strong suit of his, if he can get someone to laugh – and after years of practice with Eddie, it should be second nature, but the alcohol is really inhibiting his  _ gift _ , or whatever. “Almost there.” 

The driver speeds up when the road clears a little, which doesn’t really help matters on the Eddie front, but does get them home in record time. They’re practically ejected out onto the sidewalk, James Bond or Spy Kids style, and the driver is off. 

“Lousy driving,” Eddie mutters. His hair, held in place so scrupulously by the gel, and then mussed by the alcohol, is a mess after the rain. Richie can’t imagine he looks much better. Actually, he can’t imagine anyone could. Even waterlogged Eddie is kind of an Adonis. 

“Wait,” Eddie says, once Richie’s locked the door to his apartment behind them. “This isn’t my place.” 

“No shit, Eds,” Richie says, tugging at the collar of his jacket. Eddie gets the hint and shrugs out of it, letting Richie take it to drape over the back of the couch. “I’m not letting you loose in New York City. Who knows what you’ll get up to in this weather.” 

“I’m not a werewolf, Richie,” Eddie says, crossing his arms. His shirt is a little see through. Richie can see his t-shirt underneath, and the way his shoulders shift through the fabric. “And all my vitamins are at home.” 

“Implying that you’ll succumb to lycanthropy without them,” Richie mutters. Eddie snorts.  _ Score. _ “I have some Flintstones chew-ables on top of the fridge,” he adds, casually averting his gaze from the sheerness of Eddie’s, well, everything. Eddie grumbles something under his breath, but heads into the kitchen anyway. 

In the bedroom, Richie pulls the covers back on his bed halfheartedly (he’d actually done up the sheets that morning) and throws an old t-shirt on the bed for Eddie to change into. He also takes a moment to bury his face in his hands and breath very, very deeply for a moment. 

Back in the kitchen, Eddie’s struggling with the child lock on the chew-ables. He resists for a moment when Richie attempts to take it from his hands, and then lets go, clearly able to see in that moment the level of his own inebriation. 

“Why aren’t you drunk?” Eddie says suspiciously, eyes narrowed intently. “You had just as much as I did to drink but you’re fine.” 

“I’m not fine,” Richie informs him, but then it sounds like a cry for help, so he amends, “I mean, I’m very drunk. I’m just more, you know, proficient. At  _ being  _ drunk. You know, years of practice.” 

“Put  _ that  _ on your business card,” Eddie says. 

“Famous people don’t have business cards,” Richie says. “Anyway I, uh, made up the bed for you. You’ve got your vitamins, I’ll get you a glass of water…” 

Eddie gives him a funny look, and Richie’s suddenly terrified that Eddie’s misconstrued – what, exactly? The bed? Oh, god, does he think they’re  _ sharing  _ the bed? Sure, Richie’s couch is leather, but once he puts a top sheet down it’s pretty comfortable…

But Eddie just says, “I can’t go to sleep like this. I need to sober up.” 

Richie clears his throat.“Sure. You want gatorade.” 

“Gross, Richie. Just get me water.” 

Richie decides not to argue the point of Gatorade being gross or not when Eddie, gnashing on the chewables, starts struggling out of his shirt. “One water, coming right up,” he says, strained. At the sink, filling one of his plastic cups, he hears the dull  _ thwap  _ of Eddie’s wet shirt hitting the kitchen tiles.

_ Please, God, let him be clothed _ , RiIchie thinks desperately. Even the thought of Eddie unclothed to a PG rating makes him feel guilty. Actually, he’s pretty sure there’s shirtless men in G rated movies – everyone was half naked in the Croods, right? Richie feels simultaneously relieved and somewhere, deep deep  _ deep  _ down inside, disappointed, when he turns around and Eddie’s still wearing his undershirt. 

At least he can always rely on ribbing him. “You wanna throw that in the dryer?” 

Eddie scowls, holding his hand out for the water. “You have a dryer? Fuck off.” 

“So that’s a yes?” 

Even drunk, Eddie can’t just leave a shirt on the floor. It’s adorable. Richie presses his smile flat as Eddie grumbles asks for directions to the laundry room. He also knows that the layout of his apartment goes against human nature, and tugs the shirt out of Eddie’s hands to take it (albeit unevenly) to the laundry room himself. 

“You’re such a bastard,” Eddie says, after he’s followed Richie there. “A rich, rich bastard.” 

“What, you don’t have in unit laundry, Mr. 401K?” 

Eddie scowls. “It doesn't have its own  _ room _ .” 

Richie grunts, grappling with the settings on his dryer. “It’s more of a closet.” 

“No, my washer is in an  _ actual _ closet.” He sets his hands on his hips. “This is...this is at least a walk in.” 

It’s painful to not make a joke about Eddie’s gay washing machine – washing machine coming out of the closet, washing machine stuck  _ in  _ the closet,  _ maybe  _ the dryer wants to come out of the closet but the washing machine isn’t ready yet, but really, who actually knows what the dryer  _ wants _ , and it’ll only hurt the washing machine’s career – or at least get him trending on Twitter, in the bad way, and what’s wrong with the closet anyway, if as Eddie pointed out, it’s a walk in?

He needs to workshop it. For now, Richie manages to hold it in and let Eddie inspect his detergent instead (it’s all just TidePods, and he gets the feeling that Eddie’s judging him for it) as he stoops to throw the wet shirt into the dryer. 

“Oh!” Eddie says, right as the dryer gets going, and Richie looks over his shoulder to see Eddie brandishing a TidePen. “You actually have one of these!” 

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says, straightening too fast.  _ Woah.  _ “How else do you think I stay so clean?” 

“You’re not clean,” Eddie says immediately. “But I guess you’re not as stained as I thought you were.” 

“There’s a metaphor in there somewhere,” Richie warns jokingly. 

“You have a stain on you right now?” Eddie says intently. “On your shirt?” 

Richie glances down. “Must’ve been the ketchup. 

“Here,” Eddie says, setting down his empty water cup and uncapping the TidePen with force. “I got it.” 

“Eddie – “ Richie starts, but it’s too late. Eddie’s already close, too close, and forcibly rubbing his side with a TidePen. 

_ Jesus,  _ Richie things, looking down at the crown of his head. “Jesus,” he manages to say out loud, this time. “Warn a guy next time, Eds.” 

“The stain will set in,” Eddie grits out. He’s very warm, and Richie feels like he’s planking upright with how still he is. When he looks up at Richie, his eyes are bigger than ever. 

“Got it,” he says, quieter. Richie can only nod. “Hey, Richie…” 

“That’s me,” Richie says weakly. 

“Richie,” Eddie says again. He looks down to cap the TidePen, but doesn’t step away before looking back up. “I think….we should kiss.” 

Richie lets out a strangled laugh. “Um.”  _ What the fuck? _ “No?” 

“Come on, don’t be a pussy. Kiss me,” Eddie scowls. It would be adorable if every alarm wasn’t blaring in Richie’s head.  _ ALERT! ALERT! DRUNK FRIEND IS TRYING TO INITIATE INTIMACY! YOU ARE IN A KATY PERRY SONG! GET OUT OF THERE!  _

“Is this just part two of that thing you said in Derry?” Richie chuckles stiffly and tries to shift away. “Shouldn’t we arm wrestle first?” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just keeps  _ looking.  _ Richie’s still trying to backpedal. “Not gonna lie, Kaspbrak, I’m feeling kind of taken advantage of. Rich man, nice suit….what are you, trying to advance my career or something?” 

Eddie’s face twists up, and he’s  _ still not moving away.  _ “Don’t joke about that.”

Richie chuckles nervously again. “Whatever you say,” he says, hand hovering somewhere by Eddie’s neck where his tie would be. “Mr. Boss Man.”

“I’m not your boss. Richie.” Eddie looks up to make eye contact with Richie. His gaze is dizzying. Like, pull you in until you drown and go missing, dizzying. “I see you looking. Sometimes.” 

Richie’s stomach drops. He searches Eddie’s face. “Eddie – “ he tries. 

Eddie makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Fine,” he says, and Richie only has a moment to register the determined look on his face.  _ Oh no.  _ “I have to do everything myself.” And then he buries his hands in the hood of Richie’s sweatshirt to pull him in. 

The kiss is brief, because Richie’s pushing him away just as fast. “Eddie,” he says shakily. His heart beating like a mother fucking drum. “Eddie, you’re super drunk. And straight.” 

“So are you,” Eddie says, but he leans back away from Richie. 

Richie bites his lip.  _ Fuck. _ “No, I’m not. I mean, I am. Drunk. But I’m not…” 

It’s Eddie’s turn to blink. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. “So maybe you don’t want to…kiss your gay best friend Richie.” 

“Maybe I do,” Eddie insists. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” 

Richie swallows. This is kind of cruel. But he opens his eyes and says hoarsely, “Maybe. Yeah.” 

“So what’s the problem?” Eddie pulls him in again, and this time, Richie makes a helpless noise. Lets himself get pulled under, and fuck the consequences. 

Eddie’s mouth tastes like the Flintstones vitamins. Immediately after pulling back for the second time, he says, “I think I’m gay.” 

“Uh,” Richie says intelligently. HIs gaze is mostly trapped on Eddie’s lips, red and slicked with spit. 

Eddie bites his lip, and Richie swallows. Eddie says, “And you’re gay, so. Would you, uh, mind…?” 

Richie’s eyes flick up to meet Eddie’s. He’s as weak to them as he’s always been. And then he gets what Eddie’s saying.

_ Oh, this is so fucked up, _ he thinks, and then he pulls Eddie in again. 

+

Eddie isn’t in Richie’s bed in the morning – he’s in the master bathroom, brushing his teeth so hard that it wakes Richie up. 

“Jesus,” Richie mumbles, rubbing at his face with one hand and patting around for his phone with the other. “What fucking time is it?” 

He’s more talking to himself, but he’s either louder than he thought, or Eddie has scary good hearing, because the brushing pauses momentarily, and he calls, “Seven,” from the bathroom. 

“Jesus,” Richie says again. The inside of his mouth tastes like – well –

He’s getting flashes of last night, which he really cannot do right now. In an attempt to stave them off, he manages to stumble out of bed and join Eddie in the bathroom. He hasn’t gotten up before ten in years (Derry excluded) but what the fuck. 

“Is that my toothbrush?” Richie asks, looking around the bathroom and trying not to think about the fact that he had to pick his boxers up off of the floor of his bedroom just now and put them back on. 

Eddie spits into the sink. “What? No. I found it in the drawer.” He gestures to the cup next to the faucet that wasn’t there last night. “I had to take a glass from the kitchen to put your toothbrush in. You know how disgusting it is to just leave it on the counter?” 

“Oh,” Richie says. “Uh, thanks.” Feeling peer pressured to join in, he wets his toothbrush and tries to pretend that the world isn’t ending.

Eddie, as one might guess, is a thorough brusher. So thorough that he’s still brushing his teeth when Richie decides he’s had enough standing there in silence with him and spits into the sink. 

“You have to brush your tongue,” Eddie says, as Richie violently splashes water in his face in an attempt to get a fucking grip. 

“Sorry to disappoint, Eds,” Richie says, garbled and half drowned out by the faucet, “but brushing my tongue makes me want to barf. I have a suuuper weak gag reflex.” 

Eddie hums. “Funny. It didn’t seem that weak last night.” And then he pushes his toothbrush to the back of his throat. 

Richie, coming up for air, stares at him, towel loose in his hands.  _ What the fuck.  _ Eddie just looks at him innocently, spits one last time into the sink. He’s rinsing his mouth and out of the bathroom and Richie’s just standing there, forcing his brain to reboot. 

Eddie reappears fastening up the buttons on his dress shirt, and Richie quickly chucks his toothbrush back onto the counter and power walks back to his bed. 

“So, what? Are you going to work?” He takes his glasses off, and everything settles back into a comforting blur. Eddie’s just shapes and colors now, and Richie can’t try to dissect his facial expressions. 

“No, I’m going back home. To shower and change. I can’t exactly borrow your clothes.” 

Richie does a mental spit take, and then tries to recover. He coughs. “What, doesn’t your job do casual Fridays?” 

“No,” Eddie says. “You don’t get ‘casual Fridays’ if you make six figures.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Richie says, gesturing vaguely to his apartment, and then the clothes on the floor.  _ You connect the dots _ , and all that. 

“Fine.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Next time I’m feeling frisky I’ll wear a polo shirt and be sure to tell you all about it. How’s that for a casual Friday?”

“It’s great,” Richie says, because he really thinks he’s going to lose it.  _ Frisky? Frisky?! _ “I’m going back to bed. Lock the door behind you.”

“I don’t have a key,” Eddie says, a lot more patiently than he usually would. Richie notes, now that he’s past the fog of exhaustion, that Eddie seems to be in a good mood. Like, a  _ really _ good mood. 

“Jesus, you’re calm,” Richie says, before he can stop himself. “Is that what you needed? To get dicked down? If I knew getting laid would make you want to strangle me less I would have figured something out earlier. Winner fucking dinner.” 

Eddie flushes. “F-“ 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck me, got it,” Richie says. He’s going for flippant but if Eddie isn’t addressing the desperate edge to his voice, it’s only because he’s being polite. “I’ll walk you out.”

At the door, Eddie turns to Richie. They both hesitate, because where the fuck do you go from here? Richie has brunch with Ben on Tuesday, for fucks sake. Not to mention the group hang out at the end of the month. 

“Uh, thanks,” Eddie says finally. Richie wonders desperately if he should kiss Eddie – he wants to, but what’s the protocol here? Are they doing this again? How do you even act with hook ups? In the past, he’s always fallen into two camps: leaving at three in the morning, or getting left and waking up to empty sheets. Either way, he’s always been alone. Until now. 

Eddie interrupts Richie’s internal freak out by, strangely enough, placing a hand on Richie’s chest. Maybe as sort of a halfway goodbye somewhere in between  _ My straight buddy Richie!  _ and  _ I’ve seen you naked!  _

Richie’s heart, in return, spares him no embarrassment and beats sharply against his ribs. Thankfully, it’s only the briefest touch, and Eddie drops his hand soon enough. 

“So,” Eddie says. He looks about two seconds away from Talking About It, so Richie flings the door open. 

“Yeah! Bye!”  _ Oh my god.  _

Eddie gives him a strange look. “O…kay. Uh, see you Rich.” 

“Yeah! See you!”  _ Oh my GOD.  _

As soon as Eddie’s through the door, Richie leans back up against it. When he can’t hear Eddie’s footsteps in the hall anymore (the soundproofing for his front door isn’t great) he sinks to the floor, and, ignoring the twinge in his knees, drops his head in his hands. 

“That,” he says to his Roomba, who’s just woken up and started it’s puttering track around the living room, “can never happen again.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to be a multi-chapter but I've been working on it since March and it's getting out of hand. I've been staring at it so long that at least one piece of it needs to get out into the world. Is this terrible??? I've completely lost objectivity. Please take it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry for the wait, i truly just have brain rot and uploaded the first chapter right before every deadline i have hit me. still in the middle of those but ta da here is chapter two hope u enjoy

Generally, Richie is of the opinion that nothing means anything. Growing up, his parents were religious in the most disinterested way possible, and Richie took that to heart as he transitioned into adulthood. Plus, the existence of The Killer Clown From Space (tm) kind of underscored the problem of evil and nixed the idea of God existing from Richie’s brain completely. At least, a God that had any semblance to the one he had learned about as a kid. 

Anyway – the world is chaos, life is meaningless, and if Eddie wants to figure out his sexuality by using Richie’s body, well, it’s not like Richie’s _not_ getting anything out of it himself. Sure, ethically (or is it morally?) the optics aren’t great. Is it really fair to sleep with Eddie when he’s probably in love with him, and wants nothing more than the gross, mushy stuff that tended to push the string of his (short lived) boyfriends away in the past? Aside from The Eddie Thing, it’s pretty much the reason why Richie doesn’t date today – he may have money, he doesn’t exactly have an endless supply of _hush_ money. No one wants to do all the cute, romantic shit with a closet case. 

On Monday, Eddie asks Richie to swing by his office. His text itself reads something like, _Richard, would you please swing by my office dipshit, thank you, EK_ , and Richie’s text reads something like, _ofc, im madly in love w/u, do u want me to pick up a green smoothie for u on the way or smth, love richie._

At least, that’s the gist. 

The ride there, Richie’s essentially – what’s the word? – catastrophizing. As in, sweating profusely and trying desperately to think of every possible outcome of the next hour so that nothing can surprise him. Best case scenario, Eddie, like, proposes. Worst case scenario, Richie gets into a fatal car crash and dies before he can even get there. 

Of the two, one seems significantly more likely than the other, and Richie isn’t feeling too hopeful. 

As it turns out, Eddie’s called Richie into his office to give him a pair of sunglasses. 

“For losing yours,” he explains, as Richie takes the Ray Bans with a degree of bewilderment. “They’re prescription.” 

This was not one of Richie’s frantically envisioned scenarios. He’s at a loss. “How did you – ,” He clears his throat. _This is fucking weird_ . _Better switch back to banter._ “Are you gonna keep calling me into your office like I’m a dog?” 

Eddie gives him a strange look. “ _You_ came _here_ last time. Of your own free will” 

Richie’s piece of shit brain starts racing through word configurations to come up with just the right joke – _Usually me and your mom_ both _come, Eddie, it’s a brave new world,_ or _Well, usually, but you won’t take your shoes off like you used to,_ or, and perhaps most damning, _Actually, that was back at my apartment, remember?_ – but a rarely used override keeps him from blurting any of them out. 

Eddie ends up saving him from saying anything truly stupid, though, because the next thing Richie knows he’s being informed of a one o clock meeting that he better not make Eddie late for. 

“Oh, okay,” Richie says. “You really did just call me here for the hell of it.”

Eddie makes a chopping gesture in the direction of the door. Like he’s a particularly rude flight attendant saying _get the fuck off my plane._ “Didn’t you have a meeting around here today? Isn’t your agent’s building on Park?”

“Maybe,” Richie says. “But for the record – “ 

“The record has been fuckin’ noted,” Eddie says, shuffling some papers together on his desk. “I’ll walk you out, I really have to go.” 

“And by walk me out you, you mean ditch me in the hallway.” 

“Right,” Eddie says, clapping Richie’s shoulder, hard, as he squeezes by him into the hallway. There, he stops and looks up at Richie, still standing in his office, the threshold of the doorway between them. His face is looking kind of pinched, and all of a sudden Richie’s back to Friday, hungover with Eddie outside of his apartment and hoping that the kid that pennyboards inside doesn’t make a surprise entrance. 

“Um,” Richie says stupidly, about to fill the silence, when Eddie interrupts, clearing his throat. “Do you want to… can I come over tonight?” 

_Be cool._ “Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course. Do you want to – we could get dinner? I mean, not _go out_ , obviously – I could order food. Like….” _Fuck._ Richie inwardly and outwardly cringes. 

Eddie’s face gets more pinched. “Uh, sure. How’s nine?” 

“Great! Do you like Greek food?” _Fuck fuck fuck. Why_ can’t he just say something normal?

Eddie says, “I really do have to go,” which isn’t an answer, but whatever. 

“I’m going to get lost and die in here,” Richie announces, hoping that he sounds normal, taking his time to exit. Eddie’s one second away from tapping his foot and – yep, there it is. “I’ll die of thirst. Do you want the door closed?” 

Eddie’s already ahead of him and down the hallway. Richie’s just talking to his back. “I’m sure you’d manage to find a water cooler,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Oh, a chance to schmooze with the fine employees at – what’s the name of this place again?” He tries not to make it too obvious that he’s genuinely looking for an exit. 

Eddie flips him off and keeps walking. 

When Richie finally makes his way back to the lobby, he asks Bethany if they have any maps. “You know, for visitors?”

The look she gives him really, really makes him feel like he’s struck out twice today. 

+

Richie, true to his word, orders Greek. He makes sure to get extra hummus because he has the feeling that Eddie will fuck that all the way up, and extra pita because _he’ll_ fuck that all the way up. He also considers lighting some romantic looking candles – as a _joke,_ obviously – but then he’s not sure that Eddie would realize that it's meant to be funny. Which it _would be_.

Ha ha. 

When the doorbell rings at 9:03, Richie bravely manages to open it instead of rushing to the kitchen sink to throw up. 

If Richie (probably) looks queasy, Eddie looks downright determined. Richie had half expected him to have a death grip on a bottle of wine, but he just brought himself, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Richie says back. “I got hummus.”

“Cool?” Eddie makes a show of leaning around him to peer into the apartment. “You gonna let me in?” 

Richie steps aside. “It’d be funny if I didn’t, right? Like, if I just left you in the –”

He’s cut off by Eddie’s lips on his. Rude, maybe, but Richie can’t think of a way he’d rather be interrupted. He wants to say something, like, _Eager, much?_ or _Keep cradling my face like that and we’re_ really _going to have some problems,_ but then he remembers that, oh yeah, _Eddie Kaspbrak_ is kissing him, and can’t he just shut up and enjoy it for once in his life? 

He'd had the idea that Eddie would kiss – cleaner, maybe, when he’s sober, but there’s still that heat and urgency in the way he moves, the way he feels against Richie. _Jesus Christ,_ Richie thinks, weakly wishing that he’d had a drink or two before Eddie got here. Or maybe smoked a bowl. When he gets really high, it’s like he has to remember moment to moment what he’s doing, and this is like that. Just constantly reminding himself that this is real, that last time was real, and that it might even happen again. 

Eddie bites Richie’s bottom lip (like, who even _does_ that, in real life?), conveniently short circuiting his brain, and then steps back. Richie tries to pretend like he’s not literally weak in the knees, though that might just be because he always locks his legs when he stands for too long. Either way, he’s got to get to a chair or a couch or something, _pronto_. “Gyros?” He manages to get out. 

Eddie doesn’t even spare a glance at the coffee table, where Richie's considerately laid everything out, before he counters : “Bedroom?” 

“You’re a difficult man to argue with,” Richie says, already tugging at Eddie’s jacket and only feeling a little sad for the tzatziki that the Greek place is kind of famous for, alone in its little styrofoam container with no one to try it. But then Eddie is unbuttoning the buttons of his polo, and god, fucking shoot him for thinking it but it’s _sexy,_ somehow. Richie thought this would be awkward, but it’s like Eddie’s so determined for it _not_ to be, and Richie’s still so wildly attracted to him that it’s just _going,_ somehow. 

But kissing in his fully lit living room is still strange, stranger than kissing in his laundry room had been. So Richie lets Eddie walk him backwards, still touching, towards the bedroom. He bumps into the doorframe, makes a dumb joke about Eddie _trying_ to hurt him, and then they’re in the half darkness of Richie’s room. Half dark, because the curtains are drawn and New York spills into through the glass. 

Eddie pushes Richie back onto the bed and _climbs on top of him_ , and Richie feels a pang of guilt ripple through his chest for a moment. Because, okay, Eddie wants it, for sure this time, and okay, they’re sober, but still – Eddie still doesn’t _know_ , that as soon as he announces that this is all over, Richie’s going to crumple like a house of cards, like a take out container on the train tracks. As in, rushed to death. Emotionally. 

But then, yeah, Eddie’s waist under his hands is making him feel crazy, and he’s got his hands in Richie’s hair now, and as complicated as sex between two consenting adults apparantly is in this day and age, maybe it can also be really fucking simple. Right? 

Right. 

+

Honest to God, Richie was kind of expecting the night to end with him sadly putting away enough Greek food for two. Instead Eddie finds like, the only clean washcloth in the apartment, gives himself a spit bath in the sink, and then hauls Richie out of bed to watch Chopped. 

“You’re a really strange person, you know that?” Richie says, watching Eddie absolutely devour his portion of hummus. He always feels this kind of pride, when Eddie likes something he’s picked out for him. “I don’t think you were told that enough as a child, but it’s one hundred precent true.” 

“What?” Eddie says, still chewing. He’s back in his polo, but wearing a fresh pair of boxers and nothing else on his legs. Y’know, because he brought a second pair. Which is a normal thing to do and doesn’t make Richie want to die. At all. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” 

Richie gestures to the TV as if to say, _really?_ “I didn’t even know Chopped was on Netflix.” 

“That’s surprising. I thought you’d be all over it.” 

“I’m a Guy Fieri man, what can I say?” 

Eddie snorts. “Ted Allen was on Queer Eye, you know.”

Richie glances towards the screen.“Yeah? Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

Eddie shrugs, turns back to the TV, where a guy from Connecticut is really struggling to pry open some oysters. _Amateur chef week_. “Thought you might have met him.” 

“Right, because we all know each other,” Richie says flatly.

“Huh?” 

“Never mind,” Richie says. He wants to say, _I just had your dick in my mouth, am I actually supposed to be watching Chopped?_ Because the answer, strangely enough, appears to be yes.. 

They’re quiet again, until Eddie says, “Did you know they’re making a new one?” 

“Chopped? Isn’t it still running?” Richie doesn’t know why he’s having so much trouble following. Maybe it’s the whole dick-in-mouth thing. Like, why are they doing _anything_ right now? He just really wants to go to sleep – preferably with Eddie in his arms, but he gets the reality. Or, he thought he did. 

“No, Queer Eye. They’re rebooting it.” 

“Oh. Uh, that’s cool.” Richie’s starting to get an uncomfortable feeling about where this is going.

Eddie doesn’t seem to notice, now breaking into the tzatziki container with gusto.“Yeah. I know this guy at work – his partner does all the contracts for Netflix original content.” 

Netflix! He knows Netflix. “Maybe I’ll meet her, if I’m lucky,” he says, a little desperately. “Steve’s really busting my balls about getting a special together.”

“Him,” Eddie corrects. 

“Huh?”

“Craig’s partner is a man.” 

“Who the fuck is Craig?”

“ _The guy from work,_ ” Eddie says, waving a little bit of pita around. 

“Oh,” Richie says, and then, unable to help himself adds, “So this whole conversation is gay as hell.”

“Oh, you noticed,” Eddie says, kind of annoyed sounding. On screen, Geofferry Zakarian spits out one of the contestant’s dish because there’s sand in it. _Amateur chef week_ , Richie thinks again, and then, wait, _what?_

“Have you been, what – _strong arming_ me into talking about being gay?” Richie asks, half incredulous. 

Eddie scowls. “Well –”

“Where the fuck does _Chopped_ fit into all of that?”

“ _Ted Allen_ ,” Eddie says, like Richie’s stupid. 

“Oh my god,” Richie manages to say, and then he bursts into laughter. 

“Wh–it’s not fucking funny,” Eddie says. He’s turning red, either from anger or embarrassment, Richie can’t 

tell. “Stop laughing.” 

“Eddie,” Richie says, wiping at the corner of his eye. “Being – “ he forces himself to say it, _Jesus Christ, why is he such a pussy,_ “gay is somthing that I literally, you can quote me on this, I _never_ want to talk about it. Ever. Ted Allen isn’t going to get me to open up.” 

“But –” 

“No,” Richie says. He hates putting his foot down, especially with his friends, _especially_ with Eddie, but it’s his one thing. He doesn’t deal with it, it doesn’t deal with him. He’ll die alone and it’ll be okay, but fuck, this is the thing he doesn’t talk about. “We can do whatever you want, but I’m the last person you should ask to be your gay spirit guide.” He employs air quotes to really drive home the sarcasm on ‘gay spirit guide’. 

Eddie’s quiet for a minute, and then he says, “Fine, but you don’t have to be an asshole about it.” 

After a beat of silence, during which Richie tries not to acknowledge to himself that that actually kind of hurt, he decides to take the high (read: comedic relief) road and joke about it, if only so that they can get back to enjoying the show or each other’s dicks or something. Maybe he can salvage this and Eddie will stay over. He clears his throat. “I have, um, met Ted Allen, by the way. He actually asked me to be on the show, which, you know, bought me like ten years of emotional security.” Consider it a gay olive branch, if you will.

Eddie, thank god, kind of laughs. 

Richie goes to bed that night secure in the knowledge that at least he’s still got that. But then again, he goes to bed alone, because Eddie leaves pretty soon after the episode wraps. 

+

Not that Richie knows about any of this, but he’s pretty sure you’re supposed to talk about this stuff, so that no one’s feelings get hurt, or people stay not pregnant. The problem is that he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, so he wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, he’s hooked up with people before, but none of them were his friends. All his friends are actors and comedians or other industry people, which sounds like a brag, but is just the reality at this point. And he can’t really get into a friends with benefits situation with one of the guys who was also making homophobic jokes on stage in 2007, before it got actually too gauche to say that shit. The only exception he can think of is the handjob he got from a fellow comic, in the bathroom at some club in the nineties. But, like, it was _the nineties._ Homophobic jokes was all there _was._ Plus, heroin chic was a whole thing, and Richie used to be kind of skinny. Androgyny was in and everyone was doing coke, anyway. Point is, it doesn’t count. Not really. 

Also, Eddie doesn’t seem to want to talk about it either. Aside from the Chopped Incident, he hasn’t brought up anything that they wouldn’t normally talk about. Which Richie is cool with. So cool, in fact, that he sort of just lets Eddie take the lead. Especially because it’s not like Richie doesn’t have anything to hide. He already outed himself to Eddie, but there’s always the worse outing, the bigger thing, which is that Richie is in love with him. Richie can talk in circles all day long, but if Eddie ever sits him down and forces him to talk about _feelings_ and stuff, he’s not sure he could hold out for very long without just breaking down and telling him everything. 

Basically, Richie has no idea what the fuck to do, and he feels like he’s going crazy. So, he buys Eddie a pair of white Ray Bans and meets him for lunch. 

“Why,” Eddie says, when Richie sets the sunglasses down in front of him. He’s drinking a mimosa (a _mimosa_!) and he’s in plain clothes. Richie’s already made fun of his cream chinos. 

Why does he do anything, if not because he thinks it’d be funny? “You don’t have your own,” Richie reasons. “Can’t I do something nice for you?” 

He instantly regrets saying it, because the last time he did something nice for Eddie was, well, very nice, if he wanted to word it that way. Which he doesn’t – or at least, not now, at eleven am on a Sunday. Richie clears his throat. “I’m trying to save your skin. You scowl all the time – yeah, like that – and walking around without sunglasses gives you wrinkles.” 

“Oh,” Eddie says, “Thanks. The ship has kind of sailed on the wrinkles, though. I’m forty one.” 

“It’s never too late to start,” Richie says, sliding the sunglasses across the table. “Pretty sure you’re just gonna be a pile of folded skin.”

“Fuck off.” Eddie puts them on. “How do they look?” 

Richie snickers. “You look like a rich asshole in a John Hughs movie.”

“Shut up.” 

“You look like it’s 1985. You look like you’re gonna say some dubious shit to Molly Ringwald.” 

Eddie frowns and takes them off. “You gave them to me,” he says grumpily. 

Richie grins. “Here, we’ll switch.” He slides his new sunglasses off of his head, and hands them to Eddie. When the white sunglasses are on he says, “How do I look?” 

“Like yourself.” 

“So terrible?” 

Eddie shrugs enigmatically and slides the sunglasses on. “How about me?” 

“Let’s get you a motorcycle,” Richie says, a little strained. _Jesus, this is gonna be a real issue._

“I always wanted one,” Eddie admits. “When I was a kid. I kind of told myself that when…that I could get one, you know, after it was all done.”

“Ha!” Richie laughs desperately, because he’s not sure if he’s allowed to say _Okay, enough of this, can we go home and fuck each other through the mattress?_

He’s pretty sure he’s not allowed. 

“You know I can’t wear these, though,” Eddie says, slipping them off. “Your prescription is making me dizzy.” 

“That’s how I like it,” Richie says, taking them back. “Anna Wintour style.” 

After lunch, they walk vaguely in the direction of Eddie’s office. Richie buys a pair of knock off Prada sunglasses off a vendor, and Eddie only rolls his eyes a little before putting them on.

“Well,” Richie says, when Eddie’s apartment building is in sight. “Thanks for coming to lunch, I guess.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?” 

“Uh...” What _is_ he talking about? What are either of them talking about? “I figured you have, like, errands or something?”

“No. What? I took the rest of the day off.” 

Richie blinks. “Why?” 

Eddie shrugs. “I just wanted to.” With his hands in his pockets and the wind doing it’s damndest to ruffle his gelled hair, he really does look handsome. “Why did you think I had my schedule cleared?” 

“I dunno,” Richie says. “Vacuum cleaner sale at Bed Bath and Beyond?” 

“You’re such a dick,” Eddie says, checking his watch. “Like I’d ever buy a vacuum cleaner in person. Besides, you really think I’d ditch you to go shopping?” 

“Yeah?” Richie says, but come to think of it, Eddie had declined three calls while they were eating. So maybe _that’s_ saying something.

“Anyway,” Eddie says, putting his hand back in his pocket. “Wanna take the Escalade back to my place?” 

“I knew you had a thing for that car,” Richie says, already turning back towards the parking garage. Probably too eagerly, but sue him. Eddie’s top button is undone! What else is he even supposed to be thinking about?

“This way,” Eddie corrects, turning Richie with a hand at the small of his back. 

“Oh, _I_ see how this is gonna go,” Richie mutters, and thinks he can feel Eddie grin behind him.

+

  
  


Richie’s been to Eddie’s place, obviously, but he’s never been _naked_ at Eddie’s place. It’s very nice and neat, and Eddie has a very clean bedroom with a lot of natural light, coming in through the window. It’s also the first time they’ve fucked during the day, and it's weirdly nice. Richie would think that he’d hate it, without the cover of darkness to blur out the details of his body, or whatever. And it had been uncomfortable, at first, but then he realized that the darkness isn’t hiding _Eddie’s_ details, and Richie can see his eyelashes, or the fine lines by his eyes, or whatever. 

“I still can’t believe you’re the quiet type,” Eddie says over the pillow when they’re done, and Richie briefly wonders how much it would traumatize Eddie if he just suffocated himself right now. 

Instead he says, kinda strained, “You can’t let that get out to the press. I have a reputation to uphold.” 

“Yeah, I guess you could call it that,” Eddie says. 

“Don’t be too jealous.”

“I’m not.” He lifts himself up briefly to adjust, fully turning himself to face Richie. “I like my anonymity.” 

“You don’t want to be famous like me?” Richie jokes. “You don’t want your Starbucks order leaked to the press?” 

“It’s a wonder your sexuality was a question at all,” Eddie mumbles. 

What’s truly a wonder is that Richie doesn’t panic immediately about the prospect of his coffee order flagging him as a card carrying friend of Dorothy. But it doesn’t. It’s nice to share a secret, sometimes. Maybe. 

Maybe he’d like it to not be a secret anymore. 

Richie clears his throat. “Well. Sorry for potentially making you famous by association.” 

Eddie smiles. His hair is flopping loose. “Pretty sure Bev and Bill are the TMZ darlings right now. I’m really putting myself in danger going out for happy hour with them all the time.” 

“You shouldn’t have said that to me,” Richie jokes. “I’ll do anything for the spotlight. Wait ’til I go public.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Public?” 

“Well – “

“I’d upstage you, anyway,” Eddie says, turning his face into the pillow. He scrubs his face in it, and then re-emerges, more tousled than ever. “With the year I’ve had? Can you imagine if anyone actually cared? 

Richie can’t help but laugh. “Near death and divorce with a – surprise! – gay plot twist. TMZ would have to cut you a check.”

Eddie laughs. “I feel bad for Bev, though. Everyone thinks that she and Bill are hooking up.” 

“Yeah, but she told me she doesn’t care because it’s gonna drum up interest for her re launch.” 

“Poor Ben.” 

Richie stretches. “Nah. Ben’s like 6’3. Bill is a healthy 5’6 – “ 

“5’7. “ 

“You have all of our heights memorized, Eds?” Richie grins. “Defending the honor of your tiny brethren?” 

Eddie sits up and starts to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Only so you don’t try to sacrifice me for being the smallest again.” He turns to look at Richie over his shoulder. 

Richie snorts but obediently swings his gaze up at the ceiling. “Pretty sure that line’s been crossed, dude.” It is a shame, though. He’d been getting a lovely, uninterrupted view of the curve of Eddie’s spine for a moment there. 

Eddie grumbles something unintelligible, and Riche hears the rustling of clothes as he pulls his underwear back on. When he thinks it’s safe, he looks over to see Eddie frowning, chin ducked to his chest as he buttons up his shirt. 

“Undershirt?” 

“Oh, shit.” He looks around. 

“Might have gotten kicked under the bed,” Richie says, and it’s so domestic that he lets himself imagine a little life for themselves. One where Richie gets to nap in Eddie’s bed, and also Eddie has a cat that he pretends not to dote on. 

It’d be nice, but it sure as shit isn’t reality. 

+

It becomes like a game, which is exactly what people say you should never play with the people you actually care about. Richie and Eddie meet several times a week and go out on excursions that are Definitely Not Dates, and then they go back to whoever’s apartment is closer, and, well, you know. 

It isn’t the secrecy that really bothers Richie, and it’s not new to him either. What’s new is hiding things from the other Losers. They pretty much tell each other everything, maybe to the point of codependency. 

Well, except for the fact that Richie’s gay, and Eddie’s also appararntly gay, and that (surprise!) they are now doing gay stuff together. 

So maybe he has been hiding stuff from them. But the gay thing – Richie’s been hiding _that_ for like thirty years, and he’s practiced at it. This new Eddie thing? Not so much. Richie’s sure that he’s going to blurt it out, at the wrong time and to the wrong person, and Eddie is going to rightfully kill him for it. It’s not like Richie hasn’t done it in the past, either. He’s objectively terrible at keeping other people’s secrets. Most people he’s close to just don’t tell him things, and whenever he’s in a big movie, they hit him with an NDA so huge that it could probably sink the Titanic. Which doesn’t stop him from saying dumb stuff in live telecasted interviews, but it’s nice that they try. 

All of this is to say that brunch with Ben has transformed from fun friend times into an anxiety inducing experience that Richie speculates is not unlike fighting a fucking tiger in the Collesseum. Like, he’s definitely going to spill his guts. 

Things start out casual, besides that fact that Richie woke up at nine am for this. As Ben explains over a quinoa salad, he and Bev’s tour of Italy was cut short by two days when Ben was unexpectedly called back for a project in upstate New York. Bev still has an invitation to look at some of the older garments at the Palazzo Pitti, though, so he’s come back alone while she wraps up in Florence. 

If Richie had just flown in from Naples, he’d cancel all of his plans for a week and sleep it off. But even jet lagged, Ben remains considerate and apparently well rested. And oh so gorgeous. He’s kind of hard to look at, actually, and it’s only a little to do with the way he’s backlit by the windows Richie’s facing. Richie keeps his sunglasses on. 

“Tell me why you’re wearing those, again?” Ben asks, gesturing at the sunglasses with his fork. “It’s not doing much in the way of uh, concealing your identity.” 

Richie grins. “Because you’re the only one of our friends who wouldn’t call me an asshole for wearing them.”

“Eh, Bill wears sunglasses inside.” 

“True!” Richie slides them off and does the awkward switch out for his regular glasses. “Can you believe Bill grew up to be an LA asshole? I for sure thought he’d end up all dark academia with a goth chick in New Hampshire.” 

Ben smiles awkwardly, in a way that Richie personally takes to mean, _I think your joke is funny, but it’s tacky to make fun of our friend, and more importantly, my partner’s middle school ex, so as much as I’d like to, I’ll refrain from laughing._ “I’m kind of surprised you left LA, myself,” he says instead. 

“Aw, did you just roundabout call me an asshole?” Richie says. “I’m so proud.” Ben smiles behind his iced tea. “And the East coast was calling me, you know that. All my fans love me here. I live to serve.” 

“You’re a very self sacrificing person, yes,” Ben says, completely seriously, as if most of Richie’s fans don’t live in Florida and Ohio. Dammit, he always does this. Why on earth did Richie surround himself with such earnest people? It’s no wonder he’s fine going along with the whole secrecy part of he and Eddie’s arrangement. He hasn’t had anyone around like Ben to keep him in line. God, he and Bev leave for two weeks and everything just falls apart. No _wonder_ this is all happening right now. 

“Well,” Richie says, after a long drink of his water, “You know I couldn’t stay away from my favorite people. And by that I mean the mascots that hand out flyers in Times Square.” 

Ben smiles. “I’m sure the Baskin Robbins cone missed you too. How’s Eddie, by the way?” 

“He’s fine,” Richie says, hoping that Ben will tactfully ignore the strangled intonation of it. 

“It’s great that his divorce finally went through. I should congratulate him on it next week. Have you two hung out recently?” 

“Uh-huh. Yep, yeah.” _Why the fuck did he say the same thing three times?_

“What have y’all been up to?” _Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

“Fucking,” Richie says, “We’ve been fucking.” 

Ben blinks twice, and then laughs awkwardly. “Uh –” 

_Fuck, play it off as a joke! What the fuck is wrong with you!_ “Gotcha!” Richie says, a little manically, and desperately wishing that he’d ordered something with alcohol in it. He actually hasn’t really had anything to drink since the night Eddis became a free man, but still. He could really use one now. _Just keep talking!_ “Yeah, he’s been great. We went to the Frick collection the other day, if you can believe it. Most boring shit this side of the Mississippi! Like, paintings? Aren’t we done with those? Everything I know about Vermeer is from that movie with ScarJo in it.” _Ben will just let him sweep it aside. Sweet, tactful Ben will take Richie’s conversational cues and let it slide._

“Richie,” Ben says seriously, lowering his voice and leaning across the table, “Is something...did something happen, with you and Eddie?” 

Richie takes it back. Ben is not sweet or tactful. He is actually evil. And emotionally competent, which Richie abhors as a character trait now, actually. He thinks, _I’m not gonna tell you shit_. 

And then he meets Ben’s gaze. Ben’s kind, kind, gaze, which they should start using in CIA compounds as a truth serum. And he says, “You can’t tell anyone about this, Ben.” 

“I won’t,” Ben says immediately. “What happened?” 

“Fuck,” Richie sys, and then, because he’s a blabber mouth and always has been, does. Ideally, this conversation would not be taking place in a fucking bistro, but once RIchie starts, it’s like he can’t stop. He leaves out a lot of his feelings for Eddie, or tries to, because he’s not even sure that that’s possible. 

“Oh, Richie,” Ben says when he’s done. “That’s…”

“I know,” Richie says, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up and sinking lower in his seat. “I know, I know, you don’t have to say anything. I know it’s a mess, I’m just – he just…” he trails off, because what is there even to say, after all of that? 

“You’re not a mess.” At Richie’s look, he says, “Yeah, well kind of. But you know….I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but– “

“If you tell me to talk to him, I swear to God, Ben.” Richie sighs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t know that I can take any relationship advice from you seriously. You’re like, an underwear model with a second home, and in case you didn’t notice, you got the girl. Wam, bam, happy ending.”

Ben frowns. “What, do you think that it wasn’t hard for me and Bev at the beginning?” 

“Uh, no? I was under the impression that you rode off into the sunset to Montana.” 

“Nevada,” Ben corrects. “And trust me, she was the one at the front of the horse.” He pauses. “That’s not a sex thing. Well, kind of, but – “ 

“That’s cool, you can stop there,” Richie says, holding up a hand. “I mean, I figured, but really. I’m good.” 

Ben smiles awkwardly, but pushes through. “Look, all I’m saying is that it – _we_ were kind of a mess. Bev was going through a messy divorce, and I hadn’t really dated much…” 

“What, were you a forty year old virgin?” 

“No,” Ben says patiently, because he really always has been in Richie’s corner, even when Richie didn’t deserve it. “What I’m saying is, I think what we went through is kind of similar to what you and Eddie are going through now.” 

Richie can’t help the flare of irritation. “Ok, first of all Ben, you don’t really know what me and Eddie are ‘going through right now’.” He does bitter air quotes with his fingers for emphasis. “You have to admit that it’s kind of different, dude. You and Bev had your childhood thing going on; me and Eddie are basically just using each other for our bodies.”

“I’m not the only one with a ‘childhood thing’,” Ben air quotes back at him, and Richie remembers all of a sudden that oh, yeah, Ben was probably the only Loser who did know about Richie’s whole _thing._ Not that he ever told him, but the way they looked at the objects of their affections was probably similar. Or some bullshit.

“It’s not the same,” Richie reiterates flatly. “You and Bev aren’t working through your latent sexualities with each other. You’re straight.” 

“You’d be surprised.” Ben’s eyebrows furrow. “And I know it’s different because you’re – gay. I know that.” 

Richie doesn’t know what’s worse – the way Ben hesitates before saying it, or the way he himself winces. It’s not like he hasn’t said it aloud himself, or that it’s probably even that hard to guess if you know him, the way the Losers really know him. Honestly, he wishes his sexuality was like an open secret, and Richie wouldn’t have to come out at all. 

But it doesn’t work like that. And right now, Ben is still looking at him like he’s the Make-a-Wish foundation, personified. So Richie takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted. “Fine. Just get your advice segment over with.” 

Ben takes a deep breath, and then lets it out slowly. “Look, I really don’t know… _exactly_ what’s going on with you and Eddie but – don’t you think you deserve better?” 

Wait, what? “Huh? Me?” 

“I mean….Richie, you obviously really care about him. I just think it’s kind of...weird that he’s not thinking about how you feel.” 

“Well, we don’t really _know_ what he’s thinking,” Richie says, a little defensive. “I mean, he tried to bring up the whole gay thing and I just shut him down.” 

Ben frowns. “Yeah, but still. Aren’t you guys really close? Shouldn’t you both be on the same page with this kind of thing?” 

Well, yeah. Obviously. Way to go, Ben. Richie groans. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. You’re so level headed and emotionally literate it’s disgusting.”

“Thanks?” 

Richie yanks on the strings of his hoodie so that it closes around his face. “You’re welcome. Ben, I’m not kidding, I would rather kill a clown again then have this conversation with him.” 

Ben flashes a quick smile at a woman at the table next to him, who must have turned around at the “kill a clown again” part, before he says, “Yeah, well, I don’t, so please figure it out.” Richie laughs a little. “Besides, maybe he feels the same way. You never know.” 

Haha. If only! Richie groans again. “That’s – never mind. Also, I get that you and Bev have, like, promise rings, but – “ 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Ben promises. “I mean, I can’t say that Bev hasn’t speculated. But you know how she is. Just promise me you’ll think about it?” 

“Fine,” Richie mutters, already dreading it. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Maybe you should do it before Loser’s night next week,” Ben says. “You know, clear the air.” 

“Fuck,” Richie says. “Yeah, okay.” 

Ben reaches across the table to pat Richie soundly on the shoulder. He’s got such big hands. Such muscular forearms. “It’ll be alright.” 

Richie picks up his fork again. “Yeah, probably,” he says, and he doesn't even know who’s less convinced: him, or Ben.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Loser’s night is supposed to be this very fun and sexy thing where everyone who’s in town meets at a bar that has some kind of gimmick. There are two reasons to be excited for this particular night: one, Mike and Bill are going to be in town, and two, this bar has fucking turtle racing.

Normally, Richie would be dying to see and throw money down for turtle racing. He went to a bar that had chicken shit bingo in Austin one time and loved that. If everything was normal, he’d be downright ecstatic. Unfortunately, everything is not normal, and Richie is feeling a degree of moody ennui over the aforementioned Everything. He spends the days leading up to Loser’s night alternating between dread, panic, or both. 

On the day of, though, Richie is resolved to try to have a good time. He decides on the way over that maybe he isn’t too sad to enjoy some good old American turtle racing. Then he gets there and discovers that a) Bill isn’t going to be there, and b) it just so happens to be a Tuesday, and Tuesday is the turtles’ night off, actually. Because reptiles are unionizing now. 

So now he’s just a regular bar with no turtles and down a best friend, heading in to interact with a woman who just got a red eye back from Italy and can’t be in the best mood, a guy who’s been roadtripping and surely has _lots to say about it_ , a guy he’s fucking, and the guy he told that he would try his very best to talk to the aforementioned guy he’s fucking (or who is fucking him, depending on who’s asking) but, and here’s the completely unsurprising catch, _didn’t_. 

So, yeah. He didn’t talk to Eddie. Between work and meetings and oh yeah, _not wanting to_ , it didn’t happen. Standing at the bar next to Bev, a whiskey sour clutched in hand, all of Ben’s very reasonable and solid advice about _clearing the air_ and _being a responsible adult who communicates his needs_ (they’ve been talking on the phone a lot, recently) seems more reasonable and solid than ever. 

Why can’t he ever do anything hard? Why does he always take the easy, passive way out when, surprise surprise, it always comes back to bite him in the ass? _Why_ can’t he be confrontational in the slightest? He’s definitely going to die alone and closeted when Eddie moves on better guys, which wouldn’t even be hard for him to do, because almost _any_ guy is better than Richie. 

Maybe if he had just said no in the beginning, which would have been the best thing to do, he wouldn’t be in this mess. But – and here’s the kicker! – he didn’t want to. As bad as Richie is at saying no to people, he’s worse at saying it to himself. 

He doesn’t register that Bev’s been talking until she tugs on his shirt sleeve. “Hey, are you okay? I just talked about the fountain tours Ben dragged me on in Italy, and you didn’t even offer any sympathy. Or ask which ones were pissing water.”

Richie takes a hurried sip of his drink. “Don’t all fountains piss water?” 

“Not out of their dicks. Which doesn’t answer my question, by the way.”

 _Dammit._ “My chia pet just died,” he tries. “Why, do I seem–”

Bev arches an eyebrow. “Moody? Closed off? Reclusive?” 

“As opposed to normally, when I’m a joyeus, open book?” 

She knocks his shoulder. Richie does his best to pretend it didn’t hurt. She’s got a mean right hook. “Shut up, you know what I meant. Oh, hey Eddie,” she says, over Richie’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Bev,” Eddie says. Richie does a very good job casually not looking as Eddie sits down. Right up until Eddie snaps his face to get his attention. “Hey, dipshit.” 

Maybe not so casual, then. “Eduardo!” Richie makes a big show of spreading his hands wide, Italian mafioso style. 

It must sound pretty falsey enthusiastic, even to Eddie, because he frowns immediately, and not in the fond way he usually does. Fuck, he definietly knows that something is wrong. Richie is suddenly so, so grateful that Bev is here as a buffer. They can talk about their jobs or their friends, or...their friend’s jobs, and anything but what it’s like to get tangled up in a friends with benefits situation with someone you fought an evil clown with. 

So so grateful until Bev calls something to Ben and goes to join him on the other side of the bar. _What the fuck?!_ Richie turns to see Ben waving Bev over to the jukebox. Ben looks confused at Richie’s expression, and Richie remembers that Ben thinks that he’s already talked to Eddie, and that things must be good between them now that they’re sitting all chummy at the bar. 

Well, fuck. 

“You’re quiet again,” Eddie says, and when Richie looks over, he’s watching Richie over the edge of his cup. Richie feels, what’s the word – hot and itchy and nervous and turned on at the same time? Surely the Germans a word for that. 

“You know me,” Richie says, which means absolutely nothing. He’s sweating, and oh, so bad at this. Jesus, he pretended for thirty years – why is it so hard to behave around Eddie now? 

Eddie doesn’t appear to notice, or doesn’t care, because he leans in close and says lowly, “Think you could be quiet in the bathroom?” 

The night has barely begun, but there’s no pretending _that_ doesn’t go straight to Richie’s dick. And sure, yes, fine, Ben said some stuff that Richie should really be listening to, but Ben isn’t the one sitting in front of Richie offering a handjob, or whatever, so maybe what Ben should really be doing is minding his own business. 

Richie’s unfortunately practiced in following another guy to the bathroom surreptitiously, and besides, the rest of the Losers present are too busy enjoying each other’s company to really notice their abandoned drinks on the bar top. 

Richie wishes it could be easy like that for him, too. 

Eddie wastes no time when Richie enters the single stall bathroom and locks the door. “You look good tonight,” he says, already mouthing right underneath Richie’s jaw. 

“Really?’ Richie breathes, hands finding Eddie’s waist under his suit jacket. He’s wearing what he always wears, he thinks. Or, as much as he can think when Eddie nips the tender skin of his neck like that. 

“Mm,” Eddie says, hands skimming along Richie’s shoulders. They keep going lower, lower. Jesus, Richie hasn’t even gotten his tie loosened and Eddie’s tugging at his waistband. And – 

And Richie can’t even really enjoy this, because now Ben’s gotten into his head. And, God, is this going to be forever? Him and Eddie in the bathroom, hiding out, because Richie can’t just talk to him?

 _Come on_ , he thinks to himself desperately. _Be brave._

“Hold on, hold on,” Richie says, squeezing his eyes tight. Eddie’s almost got a hand down his pants, and _fuck,_ he’s really going to do this instead of letting Eddie get him off. Gingerly, he lifts Eddie’s wrist from the front of his jeans. “Can we – uh, can we talk?” 

Eddie’s eyes are wide when Richie opens his eyes, but they’re always wide. His pupils are blown somewhat, and Richie drags his gaze away, up to Eddie’s eyebrow. It’s not much better, because he’s obsessed with every part of him, but direct eye contact with Eddie makes him do stupid things. 

“Sure, Rich,” Eddie says, confused. Probably because _talking_ isn’t exactly the arrangement here. Richie feels his heart clench. _Fuck._ Fuck Ben and his siren’s song of open communication. Fuck whatever the next ten minutes are going to bring, because he has to experience them first. 

“Outside,” Richie manages to get out, because he really can’t have this conversation next to a toilet – or maybe that’s a good idea, because he’s probably gonna throw up – but then, Eddie’s already leading the way out of the bathroom. 

Ben looks over his shoulder as they pass by the bar, and nods imperceptibly at Richie. Richie grimaces in return. Bev and Mike don’t look up, used to Eddie and Richie sneaking off together, and Jesus, this has been going on since they were kids, hasn’t it?

The rain has stopped, outside. The bar is full enough that the street feels comparatively calm. It’s still New York; there’s still people passing by, but their side of the sidewalk is relatively empty. 

Eddie’s gaze darts around. He has his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. “What’s up?” 

Richie kicks the remnants of a beer bottle, green shards glittering against the wet asphalt. He clears his throat. Eddie looks at him expectantly.

His inner Ben is fading fast, cooled by the wind and the temptation to just get back inside and let Eddie do whatever he had been planning to do. But Richie forces himself, clears his throat and says, “I don’t think we should do this anymore.” 

Eddie looks taken aback. He gestures between the two of them. “This? You and me?” Richie nods. “Um – okay. Why?” 

Richie won’t meet his gaze. Eddie steps closer to him. “I’m not – I mean, it’s whatever, it just – could you just let me know why? Did I do something wrong?” 

_It’s whatever_ proverbially shoots into Richie’s chest, like an arrow shot from a distance. _Thunk._ “Jesus Christ, Eddie,” he says, stepping back. He drags a hand down his face. “Did you think – you really didn’t think this would be weird for me?” 

Eddie furrows his brows. “ _Of course_ it’s weird, we’re – we’re best friends. It was always weird. But, you know, I trust you, so I thought – ” 

Richie lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Ha. Yeah. Okay, well.” He’s chickening out. “Glad that’s settled. I’m just gonna – “ 

He turns to head back inside, but Eddie catches him by the crook of his elbow. “Richie,” he says, “Why is it weird? If it made you uncomfortable, I could have – “ 

“Eddie, c’mon.” Richie halfheartedly tries to pull his elbow away, but Eddie isn’t letting go. “You’re making me uncomfortable _right now_ ,” he jokes, but Eddie’s gaze only darkens. 

“Cut the shit, Richie.” 

“So let go of me,” Richie snaps back, and Eddie does. Richie tucks his arm closer to his side. _Keep you arms inside the aircraft,_ he thinks. _Like I’m gonna fucking crash the plane if I don’t._

“Fine,” Eddie says. They stare at each other. The neon sign of the bar casts red and blue light on Eddie’s face. _He’s beautiful,_ Richie thinks. Like the impact of a car crash. Sudden and painful and crushing him. He’s always been beautiful. 

“Fine.” Richie clears his throat. “It’s weird because I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve,” he says, before he can stop himself. “And I’m fucking forty one, and I’m sorry, but I still do.” 

“Richie –“ Eddie starts. “What?” He looks stunned – more surprised than he probably has a right to be. His eyes are wide and his hand comes up to – to cover his face, or press against his jaw. Something. Whatever the reason, he hides his mouth. 

“And I thought – Jesus, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe if we fucked enough you’d love me back?” He barks a laugh, gesturing wildly.. “Which, I should have known wouldn’t – I mean, been there, done that!” 

Eddie is looking at him like he doesn’t know who Richie is. “You really didn’t know,” Richie says, dropping his hand listlessly. “You didn’t,” he says, sure of it now. 

Eddie shakes his head mutely. Richie laughs again, and it’s the worst he’s ever felt laughing. Worse than the time he tried to microdose shrooms and ended up definitely _not_ microdosing and became hysterical. Worse than the time that guy kicked him out of his car right after Richie had given him a hand job and it was just so goddamn _funny_ for some reason.

It doesn’t feel funny now. “You really didn’t even consider it? You fucked around with your gay childhood friend and you didn’t think for, for a moment that he could have feelings for you. How progressive,” Richie says sarcastically. He goes to slow clap and feels a sudden wave of nausea rise up. “Fuck me,” he says, and sits down on the curb. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Eddie releases his own jaw to cross his arms tightly. “You – so, you, you.” He can’t seem to find the words, and Richie makes a _spit it out_ motion with his hand, despite everything. “Fuck you,” Eddie snaps back in response. “You just let – are you fucking kidding me? You let me do – all of _that_ to you, without saying _anything_ ? Jesus _Christ_ , Richie.” 

Richie laughs, again, high and too loud. “Are you blaming me for this? Really?”

Eddie’s arms, if possible, cross tighter across his body. He’s wearing a similar jacket to the one he had on in Derry, Richie notes distantly. “I’m just saying it’s a fucking – _conflict of interest_ – “ 

Richie snorts. “Sorry, did you want _paperwork_ ? Did you want me to fifty-shades this shit for you? I know casual sex is something you never did, but that’s kind of the point. It’s _casual._ “ 

“Yeah, fuck you,” Eddie spits. “Fuck you for that. You think I don’t wish I’d never – that I realized I was gay earlier? You think I didn’t want to get this casual shit out of the way earlier? And fuck you for implying that this is somehow my fault. Maybe if you’d just let yourself fucking date _someone – “_

Richie’s stomach drops like a rock somewhere around the broken glass like his feet. He leaps to his feet. “Newsflash, Eddie! I’m not fucking normal! I don’t fucking date! I’m sorry you hate the reason why, but you’re just gonna have to live with it!” 

“What the fuck is going on?” 

Richie and Eddie both turn to the now open door to see Bev, arms crossed against the breeze of the early summer evening. 

“We just got back,” she says, somewhere between angry and annoyed and worried, “and the best you two can do is air your dirty laundry in the street?” 

Eddie gestures wildly. “There’s no one fucking here!” 

“And everyone _else_ in New York knows how to mind their goddamn business,” Richie adds, which earns him a glare from Bev and Eddie. It would be almost funny if he didn’t feel like throwing up on his shoes. He stares down on them. “You know what – I’m out of here.” 

Bev gapes. “Richie – seriously, _what_ happened?” 

Richie’s already patting down his pockets for his wallet. It doesn’t turn up – it must be inside with his jacket still – but he has his keys and phone. Enough to get back to his apartment. He can get his wallet back later. “Just ask Ben.” 

“ _What?_ ” Eddie says, and Richie remembers the whole ’secrets’ thing. He throws an exaggerated shrug Eddie’s way and turns to go.

“You’re really bailing,” Bev says. “What about everyone else?” 

“Sorry,” Richie says. He feels bad enough already, what’s a little more guilt?

“Your jacket’s inside,” Eddie says quietly. 

“Feel free to hold onto it,” Richie says, hunching his shoulders against the chill of the night air. And then he’s gone, leaving Bev and Eddie standing in the street. 

\+ 

Eddie calls Richie five times in an hour before he sets his phone to Do Not Disturb. That night, Richie eats peanut butter from a jar for dinner, cries on the couch, and resolutely does not listen to any music. He knows he’ll only go for the sad shit. 

The next time Richie checks his phone, sometime deep into the next day, he’s got a gentle text from Ben, apologizing for the situation and explaining that he’s left Richie’s jacket with his doorman. The wallet, he managed to get into his mailbox. 

He’s more than a little gone, courtesy of the weed gummies he took right after waking up, because packing a bowl is way too much. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken two, because he’s as honed in as he’s ever been on the Beavis and Butthead reruns on TV. When he passed out on the couch last night, fully dressed, some House Hunters episode had been on. 

_This is bullshit,_ he thinks, as he’s shuffling down to the first floor to collect his stuff. When he was a kid he didn’t have to worry about jack or shit. He certainly didn’t have to deal with making sure his wallet doesn’t get stolen, when all he really wants is to lay face down on the couch and green out. For the first time in a while, Richie wishes he were a teenager again so that he could properly mope without consequences of the real world catching up to him. After he and Bill’s fight, way back in ’89, he’d laid around for a week before sulking down to the arcades. And even though _that_ had turned out to be a disaster, the point remains that he’d basically just listened to Guns ‘n Roses for 70 hours straight without showering, and no one expected anything of him until August. 

Forty one looks different than thirteen, though, because Steve calls him after a measly two days to yell at him/remind him about a meeting with his tour director downtown. Richie, who’s been alternating between a very specific Taylor Swift song and a very specific Katy Perry song, answers the phone. 

“Eugh,” he says as a greeting. 

Steve makes a similarly disgusted noise back, because despite everything, they’re a fairly well matched team. “When you missed coffee I was hoping I wouldn’t have to come scrape you off the floor of your apartment, but – “ 

Richie manages to sits up from where he’s been swaddled in his sweats on the couch. “Ah, fuck. I completely forgot.” 

“No shit. You know I charge you hourly for that kind of shit, right?” 

“…Yes.” 

Steve pauses. “Is this serious? Do I really need to come get you?” 

For all that Richie gripes about Steve, they’ve been through a lot together. Richie wouldn’t call him a friend, but they used to hang out in the old days, before Richie became such a pain in the ass to manage, and Steve got the LA office and started wearing the Armani suits. They had some times, smoking in shitty motel rooms and then swimming until five in the morning, watching the sun rise in Toledo or wherever the fuck they were that night. 

Even still, Richie can’t think of someone he’d rather see less right now. Well, that’s not true – he’d like to see no one, ever, for the rest of his life, but if Steve comes over it’s going to be a Thing. Not a Do We Need to Talk About Rehab, Again, thing, but a What Kind Of An NDA Do You Need Me To Draft Up, This Time, thing. 

Richie doesn’t think anyone needs an NDA. Eddie hates celebrity culture and tabloids, and people generally not minding their own damn business and, ah fuck, he’s thinking about Eddie again. When is he gonna get more than three seconds respite?

“No,” Richie sighs eventually, sliding back down on the couch. “I’m fine.” 

“I’m gonna take your word for it,” Steve says warningly. “But we’ve gotta start planning your next tour, and if you start missing meetings again I really am gonna assume something is up.”

“Up” like last time he means. Richie would be annoyed if he hadn’t butchered his last tour so badly. So there’s a leash on him now, so what. It doesn’t stop him from bitching about it., “If I had just ruined my career like I wanted to this wouldn’t be happening,” Richie grumbles into his Garfield throw pillow. 

“If you ruin your career I’m out of a job,” Steve says back. “Is that Katy Perry?” 

Oops. The One That Got Away is still playing in the background. “Uh, no,” is what Richie says. “That’s girl music. Cooties.” 

“Your weird thirteen your old misogyny isn’t funny anymore,” Steve says, which, considering what they’re selling, is objectively hilarious. “Meet me in thirty minutes or I’m adjusting your contract.” 

“Fuckin’ stooge,” Richie says, but he’s dutifully sitting up again. 

“Yeah, yeah, I wouldn’t have to be if you didn’t decide to relocate to the most expensive city on the planet. This is for your rent. Oh, and you got a G-Cal invite to some meeting downtown.” 

“The fuck is that?” 

“Jesus, Richie. Your Google calendar. No wonder you missed coffee.” 

Richie frowns. “My phone usually sends me notifications…” Ah. It’s still on Do Not Disturb.

Steve sounds about ready to cut the call. “Looks like your friend wants lunch, or something…” 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Richie mutters, squinting at his calendar app, because there it is. An invite, from The Office of Edward Kaspbrak, to come down for an noon meeting. Tomorrow. “Fucker scheduled me during his lunch break.” 

“Don’t miss it,” Steve advises. 

“Since when do you care about my personal life?” 

“Since always,” Steve says irritated. “Since it became such a goddamn big deal, around when you hired me fifteen years ago. Don’t be late to the tour meeting.” And then he hangs up.

Richie says, long and quietly, “Fuuuuuuck,” and then lets the phone fall back onto his chest. 

+

Is it pathetic to come crawling back after three days? Or is it really only two days, because he accepted Eddie’s calendar request yesterday? Marshmallow toothpick bridges have better withheld the test of time. Let it be known that Richard Wentworth Tozier caves under _any_ kind pressure. What is he, an optimistically purchased container of raspberries? You ignore it for two days, and then oh, there it goes, it’s moldy. 

Richie would know. 

_I’m worse than the shit at the back of the fridge_ , he thinks to himself, standing sullenly in the checkout line at Barnes and Noble. 

“That’ll be $16.47, after tax,” the cashier says. “Did you find everything ok?” 

“Yes,” Richie says glumly. “Keep the change.” 

He’s stood out of Eddie’s office building more than a few times now, but has it always looked like the skyscraper from the Lego Movie? Are other people crossing the street to avoid its shadow or is he just projecting? 

Even the elevator ride up is crushing. No one gets on for all twenty two floors. As the bell dings elegantly, Richie once again imagines what Eddie is going to do or say. 

_Probably just give the boxers he borrowed back and tell me to get lost._ Ding. _Cross out my number in his address book, just to drive the point home._ Ding. _Push me out the window and not bother to watch me hit the ground._ Ding. 

Finally, Eddie’s floor. It’s the calm before lunch hour, so the place is seemingly empty and dead quiet. As Richie walks across the seated area, he sees Bethany reaching for the phone, probably to call Eddie’s assistant. 

“Wait,” Richie says, right as she starts talking into the receiver. The look she gives him is probably as close as she can professionally get to giving him the finger. Richie tries to school his surely glum expression into something hopeful and _fun_ as he extends the Barnes and Nobles bag. She takes it gingerly and looks inside. 

“I don’t want this,” Bethany says, but she pulls the coloring book out of the bag anyway. “Mr. Kaspbrak was right, children don’t come here. The CFO’s daughter left the other one behind and the last receptionist kept it behind the desk.” 

“It’s an _adult_ coloring book,” Richie says, leaning forward to tap the cover. “And not in a sex way. See? _Ocean World_. You think a kid could keep up with the intricacies of the whale shark?” 

“I suppose you want me to color it with crayons,” she says. “The box is missing a blue.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Richie says, and then Eddie’s assistant pokes her head around the corner. “Mr. Tozier?” 

“Unfortunately yes,” Richie says, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. ”That would be me.” He salutes Bethany, who casts her gaze up to the ceiling. 

Eddie’s standing when he walks into the room, behind his desk the way he always is. He looks good, obviously. Richie’s always liked his suits, just like he likes Eddie in PJs or chinos. Or naked. He believes in equal opportunity like that. 

Eddie gestures at the door, and Richie nudges it shut with his foot. 

“I’m not having sex in your office,” Richie says, as soon as the door is closed. “I’m really trying to get Bethany to like me, and I think she’d figure it out somehow.” He shifts nervously and looks back at the closed door. “Plus the concept kind of freaks me out.” 

Eddie blinks. “You think I called you here for office sex?” 

“You didn’t call me here. You set up an appointment and got your assistant to email me the details.” It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so goddamn cold. Richie clears his throat. “Ever heard of a phone, Spaghetti?” He takes his out of his pocket and waves it. 

“I tried to call. You didn’t answer.”Eddie’s mouth twists. “I thought you’d think the invite was funny.” He hesitates. “I guess I should leave that kind of thing to you, though.”

Richie recognizes an olive branch when he sees one, but he says, “Well, I didn’t,” even though yeah, he kinda did. “Thanks for treating me like an intern.”

“Well –“ Eddie starts to say, but Richie cuts him off. 

“If you’re gonna summon me like a fucking – _court jester,_ at least bring some mini muffins.” 

“Mini muffins,” Eddie says flatly. “You want mini muffins.” 

“Or green M&Ms,” Richie says, sitting heavily in the not-comfortable chair. He gestures facetiously at Eddie’s leather office chair. “You wanna sit there? Have a meeting? We can discuss my rider.” 

Eddie crosses his arms. “No, I’m not sitting, because this isn’t – you know, you don’t have to be such a – baby.”

“A baby? What is this, Rugrats?” What the fuck, Eddie?” 

Eddie scowls. “Shut up.” 

“No, really,” Richie gestures at the chair again. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Eddie sighs but sits. They sit in silence for a moment, Eddie scowling. Richie quirks his eyebrows at him, lifting his brows higher and higher until Eddie finally speaks. 

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get… I thought – well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, I guess. It was stupid. We’re not teenagers.” 

“You just called me a baby,” Richie points out. 

“Well, maybe you are,” Eddie says, “But I totally treated you like a dick.” 

“I am a dick,” Richie says. “Dick Tozier.” 

Eddie snaps. Like, literally snaps a pencil on his desk in two. “Are you going to let me apologize, or what?”

“It’s making me very uncomfortable,” Richie replies truthfully. Of all the things he thought Eddie was gonna do or say, this is not one of them. 

Eddie sinks lower into his chair. “Yeah, and that’s why I need to do it. You just let me be an asshole, and it’s my fault for, like, _being an asshole._ ”

“I have issues,” Richie offers. “It’s not your fault I didn’t, uh, tell you about my hang ups.” 

“Using a close friend to sexually experiment is pretty shitty no matter how you look at it,” Eddie points out. “No matter how you feel.” 

“Yeah, but – “ 

“No, it was shitty,” Eddie interrupts. “Acknowledge that it was shitty.” 

Richie grimaces. “Okay, it was shitty, fine. But it’s not like I wasn’t getting anything out of it. I shouldn’t have let you…” 

“Yeah, we’ll get to that,” Eddie says, “But. For the record, on the record, I’m sorry.” 

“Okay,” Richie says. “Are you working on apologies with your therapist?”

“Yes,” Eddie snaps, and then takes a deep breath. “Look, it’s just like, everything that’s happened to me in the last year – you know, crashing the car, my divorce, It, _getting impaled –_ “

Richie can’t help himself. “Which time?” 

“I don’t know why you think that’s funny,” Eddie deadpans. “You’re not a top.” 

Richie splutters a laugh, and Eddie continues, “Anyway, _the point is,_ it was really easy to like, blame everything on everyone but me. Even though, like, it takes two people to get a divorce. I mean, sometimes it’s – anyway, I have agency and I have to take responsibility for the shit I do, and my part in the things that happen to me.” 

Richie wonders when he started falling into the category of _Things That Have Happened to Eddie._ Maybe he always has been. “Your therapist thinks you had a part in getting stabbed?” 

“Well, _that_ wasn’t my fault,” Eddie allows. “But with, you know, you and me, the point is that I did it, so I should apologize.”

“Okay, well, I’m sorry too then,” Richie says. 

“Okay,” Eddie says back. 

An award pause descends between them. Richie lets it sit for as long as he can, before leveraging his hands on the armrests of the chair. “ _Welp,_ I’ll let you get back to your lunch break.” 

“Wait,” Eddie says. “Wait. We still haven’t talked about…” 

“Oh, that,” Richie says, eyes darting around to try and find the time. How long is it until Eddie’s next meeting? He doesn’t have a clock in here, the bastard. It’d probably be too obvious to check his phone…

Eddie’s looking at him expectantly. Richie sighs and relinquishes the arm rests. “Yeah, okay. I shouldn’t have…I didn’t want to tell you, like, ever, so at the time it just seemed easier to go along with than, you know, giving you the reason not to.” 

“There are some other fairly normal reasons to bail on that sort of thing.”

“You’re very persuasive,” Richie says, and then sighs. “Yeah, I know. I just…wanted to. And then I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Eddie’s quiet. Then he says, “We’re not very good at not getting what we want, are we?” 

Richie smiles in spite of himself. “No, we’re not.” He takes a deep breath. “So I’m sorry that I didn’t…communicate with you on that, or whatever. Like I said, I didn’t even really want to come out to everyone so it was just…” 

“I think we can agree that it was stupid, all around.” Eddie rubs at his temples. Can we just – can we just, strike this from the record, or something?” 

“Sure – sure, Eddie. I mean, I don’t know if you want to – “ _Be friends with me_. “I get it if it changes things,” he adds hurriedly. 

“Of course it changes things,” Eddie says. “So – so we can start over. Right?” 

Richie’s heart sinks. “Sure thing, Eds.” 

“No, I mean like – “ Eddie’s a little pink. “I mean, like, _start over._ “ 

Richie chuckles, confused. “Pretty sure we can’t go all the way back to grade school.” 

Eddie’s been getting progressively redder in the face. Like, _really_ red. “No, like – fuck, like do you want to get lunch?” 

Richie blinks. “Don’t you have a meeting at – “ 

“A date,” Eddie says, practically steaming at this point. “Like a date. A real one. A lunch date.” 

Richie blinks again, twice. He’s gotta be mishearing this.“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Okay, even if he’s mishearing this, Eddie’s got that crease in between his eyebrows, for when he’s _really_ determined. 

“It’s just – you were not really _feeling it_ the other night so I thought – “ 

“I had to process!” Eddie explodes. “I had no idea! But – I’m not _against it,_ Richie.”

“Well,” Richie says, stung, “If you’re _not against_ it – “ 

“Fuck, Richie! Let me finish!” Eddie takes a deep breath. “Look, I was surprised _at the time_ because I just – didn’t know, or I didn’t want to think about _me_ and _my shit_ or whatever, but like – I _care_ about you, and I like sleeping with you, and I _do_ have feelings for you, and I just want to date you! If that’s okay with you!” 

They stare at each other for a moment. Richie starts to say, “Well, I – “ But then his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat and start over. “Well, if that’s you feel,” he says, and _dammit,_ he sounds all teary. Ah, well. “I can’t say I have objections.”

Eddie smiles, and then says, “I’m sorry, for, you know, everything. But you know, making you feel bad about it.”

“I think I’m in shock,” Richie says, “So maybe take this with a grain of salt, but it’s okay. But,” he winces, “I…this is for real, for me. Like, I really do….feel that way about you. So if that’s like…” 

“Richie,” Eddie says, and he finally gets up from the desk to circle around. Richie stands hurriedly. “I’m a fucking idiot. I feel the same.” 

“Seriously?” Richie’s voice cracks, embarrassing, again. 

“Seriously,” Eddie says firmly. “I don’t know what I have to offer that’s so...’I mean, I’m kinda fucked up in this department, but….really. I really do.” 

“Oh, okay,” Richie sniffs, but he doesn’t get to say much more, because Eddie shuts him up with the oldest trick in the book. 

As far as kisses go, it’s not their best, or that well executed. But it’s still romantic and perfect and Richie never thought he would have it, so. These three things stand for it. 

“I’m not crying,” is what Richie says, when they break apart. 

Eddie starts, “But – “ 

“Revisionist history,” Richie interrupts, wiping his face quickly. “What’s happening is very uncool. So it's not. Happening, that is.”

“You think I love you because you’re cool?” Eddie says, not un fondly, and it makes Richie melt so, really, asked and answered. 

“Remind me to get Bethany an edible arrangement,” Richie says, and Eddie splutters a laugh. “I’m pretty sure she got us together.” 

Eddie shakes his head, still smiling. “I don’t think so at all, but okay.” 

“I have a feeling. Like Karma, or luck.” 

“Whatever,” Eddie says, and threads their hands – their _hands_! – together. “Just send it from yourself. I have a reputation to uphold.” 

“If you could call it that,” Richie says back. And Eddie can’t really even glare at him, just gives him a look that’s warm and fond. And then Richie waits for him to lock his office and leave his assistant with instructions for the rest of the day. And then he lets Eddie lead him to the elevator with a hand on his elbow, as much like the first time he came to visit him at work as it is unlike it. 

If Bethany gives Richie a thumbs up when Eddie’s facing fully away from her, and if Richie throws her a wildly undignified fist pump, well, no one has to know but them. 

+

Back at Eddie’s apartment, Richie shucks his shoes by the door because this is a _shoes off home_ while Eddie speed walks to the kitchen to wash his hands. 

“Hey, have you ever thought of getting a cat?” Richie says, joining Eddie in the kitchen. “You could use another grumpy little critter in your life. A kindred spirit, if you will.” 

Eddie turns around. He’s been watering the pothos in his kitchen window with the hose attachment from the sink. He points it threateningly at Richie. “You’re already an animal.” 

Richie crouches to throw his head back and howl at Eddie’s ceiling. Eddie actually does spray him with the hose attachment then, and Richie cuts off abruptly to laugh, holding up his hands defensively against the already cut off spray of water.

“Look at this,” Eddie says, one hand on his hips. “Look what you’ve done. There’s water everywhere.” 

“Uh, there’s mostly water on my shirt,” Richie says, pulling it away from his skin. It makes a satisfying _thwup!_ sound. “How do I look? Like I’m selling perfume?” Eddie presses himself back to the sink when Richie lopes to him and wraps him up in his arms, pressing himself against Eddie. “Mmm. Nice and dry.”

“Not anymore,” Eddie grumbles, but he lets the hose snake back into the sink, and dips his head so that it’s resting below Richie’s shoulder. With both free hands, he smooths both hands along Richie’s side so that the white t-shirt clings, see through, to him again. 

“Come on,” Richie jokes. “No fair. No one wants to see that.” 

Eddie lifts his head and fixes his gaze to Richie intently. “I do,” he says, seriously.

“Bullshit.”

“No bullshit,” Eddie says stubbornly, and Richie ducks his head to try and hide his warm ears. Eddie pinches the shell of his ear anyway, and Richie huffs a laugh. “Okay, okay, I see. You just wanted me naked.” 

Eddie’s hand snakes down to pull at the hem of Richie’s shirt. “Maybe. Would you wash my car, later?” 

“Sure,” Richie says, leaning back to pull his shirt off the rest of the way. “Me and the Escalade— your only two loves. You ready for that Titanic car sex, now?”

Eddie kisses him, probably just to shut him up and not because he’s getting hot and bothered over his car, but Richie doesn’t contest it, especially when Eddie pulls the shirt off over his head and drops it on the floor behind them. It hits the tiles with a slight squelch. 

Richie’s only breathing a little heavily when they break apart. “Bedroom? I’d love to – well, I can’t do counters anymore. ‘Cause I’m a bicentennial man.” 

“That’s not what bicentennial means,” Eddie says, both hands pressed to Richie’s chest to push him gently away. “And even if it did, you’re not even fifty.” 

“Yet,” Richie says, stooping to grab his sopping t-shirt. “Oof.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Cut it with the dad noises. You’re gonna mop that later, right?” 

“Uh, I'll put an old towel down? You’re the one who got me wet.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and knits their fingers together, tugging Richie to the bathroom, where he takes the shirt and throws it in the tub. Then he pulls a fluffy towel down and scrubs it up Richie’s sides and into his hair. Richie, for his part, lets his gaze go unfocused Eddie gently dries him off and then plucks his glasses from his face to clean them. 

“You okay?” he asks, settling them back on Richie’s face. 

“Uh huh,” Richie says. “That was just nice.” 

“Wait until I make you shower, after,” Eddie says drily, and Richie tries to pretend that showering with Eddie isn't the highlight of his life. Just lets him settle his hands on Richie’s waist and propel him gently into the bedroom.

On the bed, Eddie pushes Richie against the headboard to settle in his lap, and makes quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it and letting Richie push it off his shoulders. It pools somewhere around his waist as Richie skims his hands along the side of Eddie’s ribcage and pulls at the hem of his undershirt. Eddie relents, pulling it over his head, and then leaning back in to kiss Richie again with an urgency that makes him feel floaty and wanted. 

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask,” he hears himself say, against Eddie’s lips, “Well, not really ask. I mean, it’s one of those things where you ask, but really, you know the answer – “ 

Eddie leans back, frowning slightly above Richie. “Richie. What is it.” 

Richie looks into his eyes. Deeply. “Abs? You’ve got ‘em?”

Eddie squints. “What did you say? Do I have abs? No I fucking don’t have abs.” 

“Okay.” Richie latches onto Eddie’s neck. 

Eddie squirms in return, but he continues, albeit somewhat unevenly. “You know how you get abs? You do one million sit ups, which are bad for your back, and you starve yourself. You think I would do that?” 

“Maybe,” Richie says, pulling back and lifting his chin up to kiss Eddie. “You’re kinda compulsive.” 

Eddie lifts his chin, so Richie kisses it. Like a dog who wants to lick the inside of your mouth. “Well, I don’t,” he says, and then “Ugh,” when Richie sloppily kisses his chin. 

“So what am I looking at?” Richie mumbles against Eddie’s jaw. “What am I touching?” 

Eddie lays a hand on the top of Richie’s head, smoothing his hair down despite his show of being disgusted. “They’re _toned._ ” 

“You have a six pack.” He nudges Eddie’s jaw with his nose. _Let me in._

Eddie half grins, and then tries to smother it. “I need you to reevaluate what you think a six pack is. As soon as possible.” 

“Okay,” Richie agrees easily, and ducks to press a kiss above Eddie’s belly button. Eddie’s fingers clench in Richie’s hair, and then he’s gently pulling him up so that they’re face to face. Then he tips his jaw down, and Richie really does get to lick into his mouth. 

“You really are a dog,” Eddie huffs against his lips. 

“Yeah? You gonna keep me?”

“I already said I’d give you a bath,” Eddie says. “What more do you want?” 

“Adoption papers,” Richie says, and Eddie smiles against his mouth. And then after that, they don’t talk for a bit. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow uploads! Didn't mean to make y'all wait so long, but here it is, finished at last. Hope you enjoyed, please let me know what you think! And happy holidays everyone :-)
> 
> Also! I realized i posted my first It fic about a year ago today! I’ve loved writing in the the fandom and I’m excited to keep going :)


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